Flame
by Tw1st
Summary: When Mary Stuart, the young and headstrong Queen of Scotland, befriends Sebastian de Poitiers, the free-spirited bastard son of the French King, the course of history may be changed, forever.
1. What I Desire

**A/N:** Some things you should know before delving into this fic: This is, in fact, a Mash story. That isn't to say that I don't love Francis – I do! I just… _love Bash more_. ;) But don't worry, I will take good care of Francis. He will frequent this fic, and he is not going to be villainized.

Also, this story begins right around season one, episode two. I will draw certain dialogues from the show -through all of the first season- some of which you may recognize.

* * *

 **Chapter One : What I Desire**

 _I had the week that came from hell  
And yes, I know that you could tell  
But you're like the net under the ledge  
When I go flying off the edge  
You go flying off as well_

 _You got something I need  
Yeah, in this world full of people there's one killing me  
And if we only die once, I wanna die with you_

 _-Something I Need,  
One Republic_

* * *

 **C** atherine de' Medici, Queen of France, found herself in a very dangerous and difficult position.

She watched with mounting trepidation as her trusted seer, Nostradamus, entered into her private chambers, passing her line of servants and guards as if they were invisible.

As the tall prophet made his way over to the writing desk where the queen sat, with her hands clasped tightly within her lap, her guards looked to her for orders. Catherine nodded to them discretely, waving a dismissive hand through the air, and waited in silence until the armor-clad men and lower-class attendants had completely vacated the room. Then, hesitantly, she granted the French court's renowned prophet her full and undivided attention.

The look that she found within the seer's eyes, however, caused the queen's stomach to immediately coil and drop.

"Do not give me that look." She warned, leaning back against her seat. She was dressed richly in an evening gown, colored in royal reds, and her hair and fingers were adorned with beautiful, glittering jewelry. The crown atop her golden hair sat perfectly still as she stared up at Nostradamus, watching his face, wondering what thoughts hid behind his deep brown eyes.

"What have you _done_?" Asked Nostradamus slowly, in his familiar yet raspy voice.

Catherine's brows quirked upward in response, momentarily, and she challenged him to continue with pursed lips. It was universally understood throughout the kingdom that, out of all the subjects at Catherine's disposal, Nostradamus was the closest thing that the French queen had to a friend; which made him a singular exception, when it came to confrontation.

Nostradamus shifted uncomfortably beneath the brown fabrics of his tunic, and he lowered his voice to the tone of a whisper. "You blackmailed a boy into taking Mary's virtue by force."

"I did what I had to, to protect myself _and_ you." Catherine said while lifting her chin higher. She watched as her trusted seer's jawline tensed and released, knowing that her words struck him at his core. "If only that _stupid_ Scottish boy had actually succeeded in poisoning her…"

"That boy is now dead."

Catherine deadpanned. She ought to have known that Nostradamus would express his distaste for the outcome of her most recent ploy; but she couldn't be bothered with his sentimental aversions. She had work to do. She had plans that needed to be set into motion. She had a son who needed her help.

"A necessary death." She defended.

Nostradamus' mouth grew tight and hard.

It was a delicate problem they faced to be sure, but something _had_ to be done. Their knowledge of the future -kept in secret between only them- put both the queen and her trusted seer in a wonderful yet terrible position. They knew the outcome of her son's horrible fate, but not the cause – _entirely_. And Catherine understood, without doubt, that her headstrong son would not take kindly to her interference; especially if he were to discover her involvement in recent -unfortunate- events.

"How do I tell my son you see his death? That his union with Mary will be the cause?" Asked Catherine. She placed her elbow atop her desk and rested her chin at the tip of her thumb, then began running her index finger back and forth along her lower lip. She glanced around her private chambers, as if searching for an answer among her belongings; her gaze bouncing from the red and gold tapestries along the windows, to the posh pillows above the bed, and lastly onto the wood-carved mantel piece atop the crackling fireplace.

Nostradamus was silent for a moment, considering her dilemma, before drawing in a harsh breath. "Francis doesn't believe in prophecies. You cannot tell him."

"I must draw Francis' attention elsewhere, indefinitely. And somehow force Mary to withdraw herself from the arrangement…" Catherine mused, drawing her gaze downward and onto the writing desk before her.

 _Of course_ , she thought to herself, staring at a blank piece of parchment paper as her plan began to formulate within her mind.

With haste, she reached across the writing desk for her feathered quill. She dipped the sharp end of the tool aggressively into the ink bottle to her right, then inched the blank parchment closer to her breast. After a moment's consideration, she began to write out the foundation for her brilliant plan. As her hand flew across the paper, carving words of betrayal across each line, she could feel Nostradamus' eyes pressing into the side of her face.

Catherine paused, flicking her attention back up and onto the tall seer.

"I trust your visions, and your council," her tone was softer, kinder, and more determined than before, "but until your visions are altered I will stop at _nothing_ to end the alliance, and break this engagement apart."

A strange shadow flashed across Nostradamus' face before he spoke, with a pernicious tone, "I will not assist you in harming any more innocent people."

The queen acknowledged his sentiments -just for a moment- before returning to her writing. A thick anticipation hung in the air between Catherine and Nostradamus as she worked, scribbling across the parchment as if she were punishing it. The letter had to be perfect; and, desperate as it was, it had to be convincing.

Once she was completely satisfied with the final product, having read it over several times, the French queen rounded her shoulders with pride and wet her lips, once again leaning back into the cushions of her chair. It _was_ perfect. The plan, the letter – all of it.

"Do not worry," Catherine said coolly, dropping her quill into its home of ink while rising confidently from her seat. The legs of her chair scraped loudly across the tile floors as the queen reached her hand forward to cup Nostradamus' bearded chin, in a strange show of affection. "I have thought of another way."

Nostradamus looked to her with uncertainty, but remained as silent as stone.

He watched in confusion as the queen proceeded to fold the letter into three separate sections and stamped it with a red seal labeled from French Court. She then glided to the doorway with clicking heels and thrust the large door open with an air of importance to reveal a sea of guards and servants waiting dutifully across the threshold.

Catherine glanced over her subjects for a moment -searching for a specific face- before handing the letter to a short servant girl that she recognized as being truly loyal. The girl silently received the letter and looked to the queen with obvious apprehension.

Catherine's lips stretched back to reveal a pompous smile. "See that this gets to Lady Olivia D'Amencourt of Italy. And be discreet."

* * *

 **S** ebastian de Poitiers, bastard son of King Henry II, stood at the top of the stairs as Queen Mary of Scotland entered into the hallway below; and he caught himself staring.

There were times -not many, but a few- when Sebastian preferred the safety of the French Court to that of the constant call of the wild forest; but, ever since Queen Mary's arrival, he seemed to desire the confining walls of the castle above all else. There was a lightness that Her Grace's presence had brought to the royal estate; though, he couldn't quite place his finger on _how_.

Sebastian leaned into the railing along the castle's upper level, steadying himself against the wooden posts as his hands hung freely over the edge. Servants and guards moved noisily behind him, shuffling hurriedly by as they tended to their afternoon duties, but his attentions were captured elsewhere.

His eyes haltingly trailed after the Scottish queen below him, who was enveloped by sunlight as she sauntered past the tall and radiant windows with her loyal dog in tow. Her long dark hair hung in rich ringlets down the back of her white gown, which was form-fitting to her graceful curves, and her hand ran softly over the nape of her dog's neck with affection. As usual, everything about her appeared elegant and -somewhat- ethereal; from the way that she moved, down to the smaller, more intimate details, like the twin braids that framed the sides of her narrow face.

From the moment that Sebastian had laid eyes upon Mary, when she had exited her carriage only a few days prior, his entire chest had caved inward as if he'd been squarely struck by a fast-moving stag. The king's bastard had heard rumors of the Queen of Scot's beauty, prior to their meeting, but words had not justly prepared him for her charm _or_ -of what he had later discovered- her wit. And, true to his nature, Sebastian was easily drawn to these enticing traits, no matter the woman.

Even if, he subconsciously scolded himself, that woman so happened to be his little brother's fiancée...

" _Take care, my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours."_ Sebastian's jaw tightened as he considered his mother's warning from a few days before.

He had been all-too quick to lend a hand when Mary's dog went jaunting into the forest, and he had been equally eager to assist in the capture of the escaped boy, Colin, who'd attempted to ruin her virtue. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, Sebastian had tackled each of Mary's problems as if they personally affected him; though, he insisted that these heroic actions were due to his undevout loyalties to his little brother Francis.

But what must Francis think of Sebastian's recent involvement in the Scottish Queen's wellbeing? The king's bastard could _hardly_ make sense of it, himself...

Sebastian gnawed absentmindedly on the inside of his cheek as a dangerous thought struck him. _Ah, but you know damned well why you're involved …_

"Mary!" A voice called out to the young queen from the end of the lower hall, causing Sebastian's eyes to shift. He knew to whom the voice belonged, long before he saw her, and it was no surprise when Queen Catherine traveled into view.

The Queen of France crossed the hallway in tight strides, holding herself tall in what could only be an attempt at intimidation. Two guards, whose chainmail clinked softly with each step, shadowed closely at her heels.

Sebastian watched with growing anticipation as Mary paused and turned from the window, shifting her torso to face towards the fast approaching French Queen. He felt himself draw in a sharp breath through tightly clenched teeth, knowing how likely it was that the interaction below would spark confrontation. He was unfortunately aware -arguably, better than anyone- of how pitiless Catherine de Medici could be.

Catherine had _never_ been kind to Sebastian; even when he had been a young child. At best, her blatant disregard for his existence was the kindest thing that she had ever given to him – which, on most days, was gladly received. In contrast, Catherine initially had been pleased to welcome the young Queen of Scotland into French Court. But, as days passed and the nights grew colder, a darkness had shifted into the French Queen's heart, and she had developed a sudden cruelty when matters concerned Mary. The cause of this abrupt deviation in Catherine's demeanor had remained a mystery to Sebastian – but it had not gone unnoticed.

"Yes?" Mary responded, rolling the end of one of her dark braids between the tips of her fingers. She, too, seemed to anticipate the worst.

Catherine came to a halt at Mary's side and squared her shoulders beneath the loose garments of her flame-colored silks. Per her usual character, she was quick to the point, "it is good of you to be so _understanding_ to Francis and his needs."

Mary's dog, Stirling, let out a low whine as if he were reacting to a shift in his master's disposition.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Mary said coolly, clasping her hands at her front.

Sebastian straightened as one of the castle's hefty guards paused momentarily at his side. They exchanged an awkward glance, wherein the king's bastard was forced to realize that his current position appeared to be _spying_ rather than casual observing. He forced a smile and nodded to the guard, taking a step backwards to distance himself from the railing. Regardless, Catherine's next words did not evade his keen ears...

"I am referring to my son's lovers."

Sebastian's eyes snapped back down onto the conversing queen's below -guard be damned- and he tensed. Mary's chest began to rise and fall with heavy breaths as Catherine's eyes grew ablaze with satisfaction.

"They never last long," Catherine continued with a smirk, "you learn the signs after a while – which girl is serious and which is not."

Mary's lips twitched, as if she were holding back the desire to snap. Somehow, despite it, her voice came out even and clear, "you must be mistaken."

"He is no different than his father, in that way. Henry had known Diane first, and after our marriage I found out she was there, in his heart, all along. And then that _bastard_ son of theirs was born, who is nothing more than a complication of Henry's lust. A mistake that I must constantly endure …"

Sebastian's hands found their way back onto the railing and he gripped it with a tension that whitened his knuckles. It wasn't the mention of him -or his mother- that pricked at his emotions, but rather the delivery in which Catherine spoke of it. Sebastian knew that Francis was a great deal of things -passionate, ambitious, and sometimes foolish- but to compare him to their _father_ was simply unfathomable.

Mary fixed Catherine with a hard stare, her eyes glinting with a hint of sunlight. "I do not believe that Francis is anything like his father."

A surge of unwavering pride shot throughout Sebastian's veins and stretched up onto his lips in the form of a smirk. Mary was nothing if not bold.

"Sweet girl," Catherine said with an amused smile, "you are nothing more than a contract to Francis. You will give him heirs and mother his children - but he will _always_ seek out other company."

"Even though we are contracted into marriage, there is still hope for love and faithfulness!" Mary defended, though her voice sounded heavy with doubt.

Catherine quirked a brow and her eyes hardened as she drank in the blatant sadness on the younger queen's face. "Do not let your foolish and naïve _fairytale_ dreams cloud your mind, Mary. No one will love you here."

Mary said nothing, though Sebastian could see her jaw tighten sharply for a brief moment as tears welled within her eyes; and his heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

Catherine inhaled a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool air of the hallway. She then flicked her narrowed eyes past Mary and continued on her way, moving as if she had never paused in her journey at all.

Mary watched after Catherine with silent grief. She waited until the French Queen had completely disappeared before stooping to catch hold of Stirling's leash. She then straightened and moved towards the castle exit, blotting the back of her hand gently against the reddening flush of her cheeks as she escaped through the large, wooden doors.

With urgency, Sebastian pushed away from the railing and made his way down the tall flight of stairs; consciously aware that the heartbreak he had just witnessed within Mary's eyes had awoken something deep within his soul.

* * *

 **M** ary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, wrapped her hands tightly around her elbows, cradling herself as she stared out at the vast ocean before her. She watched as the salty waves lapped against the shore in a gentle rhythm, allowing the sound of the rolling tide to calm the wild drum of her heart.

A chilled breeze brushed over the trail of fresh tears that ran down Mary's cheeks, and she wiped at them with blatant ire and frustration. What a fool she must have looked in allowing Catherine, Queen of France, to rile her in such a manor! Yet, it hadn't been Catherine's words that stoked the fire of Mary's emotions; rather, it had been the _honesty_ in what she spoke. She was not loved here, and Francis did not carry the same affections for her that she had hoped he would. Not yet, at least.

And, though matters of the heart should not have concerned or troubled a young ruler such as Mary… _they did_.

The thought of her loneliness made her feel terribly distraught.

Still, what was _even_ worse, was the reality that these tears had not been the first shed since her arrival in French Court. In fact, Mary had experienced _far_ more grief than joy within her first week at the royal castle; and her sorrows were increasingly more often, for reasons she could not fathom. She was constantly battling, internally, with some form of grief; if it wasn't the French Queen toying with her emotions on a daily basis, then it was the constant linger of danger weighing heavily upon Mary's narrow shoulders.

Of course, the young Queen of Scotland was no stranger to threats.

Since the age of six, she had lived with a metaphorical target on her back; and her enemies seemed to stretch increasingly far and wide the closer she came to ruling. Once, not along ago, she had found promise in knowing that when she took her position at the Dauphin of France's side she would be free from the constant attempts on her life…

Yet, here she stood, trapped within the French Court that had once assured her safety, being silently hunted by an enemy that _may or may not_ have been housed under the same royal roof.

Mary shuddered as she recollected on an earlier warning given by Colin, who, _incidentally_ , was the same boy who had attempted to rob Mary of her virtue. He had warned of a _higher power_ , looming among the shadows of the castle. A _higher power_ that had pressured him into committing the near-violation. A _higher power_ who -though unidentified- had the ability to ruin the boy's life if he hadn't complied with their demands. Which, in the end, did not matter; for he had been found strung-up and dead within the woods several days later.

Mary had her suspicions of who the _higher power_ may -in fact- be, but she did not give them voice. After all, who could she trust within the French Court?

Stirling snorted gruffly, jarring Mary free from her dismal thoughts. She snapped her eyes down onto the Deer Hound's gray face and studied his calm demeanor, feeling ridiculously envious of his simple and carefree life.

"Is there no one that I can trust here other than you?" She asked, hoarsely.

There was a sudden crash of pebbles beneath the sound of traveling boots, and Mary's stomach twisted with dread. Had Catherine followed her out onto the grounds, hoping to tear her down with more heartless facts? Had Francis come to inquire on his mother's behalf? Had one of her ladies-in-waiting witnessed her crude encounter with the French Queen and come to lend a sweet -but unwelcomed- ear? With expanding fear Mary twisted about on her heel so quickly that, for a fleeing moment, she thought she might lose her balance.

A rush of relief flooded throughout the Scottish Queen's chest as she examined Sebastian, the king's bastard, who was dressed in his recurrent attire; a long leather coat, loose-fitting breeches, and a pair of knee-high riding boots. Mary had discovered, over her first week at court, that Sebastian's usual choice in clothing made his frequent departures all the more effortless; he was dressed for escape, at any given moment.

As he approached, Sebastian regarded Mary thoughtfully with his cool silvery eyes. Once he was within arm's reach, he knelt forward to run his fingers across Stirling's long back, causing the dog's tail to wag in contented welcome.

"Her bark is worse than her bight, I assure you." Sebastian spoke, with a tender tone.

Mary studied Sebastian warily as he continued to pet her dog, considering his kind assurance.

"You overheard my conversation with the Queen." Said Mary. It was not a question.

Sebastian was silent for a span, moving his hand to the space below Stirling's chin and scratching until the dog's hind leg began to comically twitch. The king's bastard then gave Mary a crooked smile and flicked his eyes up to meet hers. "You and I have that in common; Queen Catherine's animosity knows no bounds when concerning us."

A feeling of disquiet washed over Mary as his words struck a chord.

"I do not understand what _I_ have done to earn her distaste," she said plainly, "I can understand why she dislikes _you_."

Sebastian quirked an eyebrow, and a ghost of amusement flashed across his face.

Immediately horrified and embarrassed by her own thoughtless outburst, Mary's jaw dropped open as she frantically began to retract her poisonous words. "I apologize – that was cruel. I did not mean it as judgement. I simply understand that you pose a threat to her, and are a constant reminder of the King's disloyalties – not that your mother isn't pleasant, or you -"

Sebastian chuckled and rose to his feet, casually silencing Mary with his unexpected behavior. He then clasped his hands tightly behind his back and inclined his head with a dimpled smile, "you can always be honest with me, Your Grace."

Mary bit down onto her lip as heat began to rise from the center of her chest, traveling up into the tops of her cheeks. Sebastian had called her by her name on several occasions, most notably when he had caught her on her way out into the woods a week prior – though, he had used it sparingly ever since. She had been addressed as 'Your Grace' by countless individuals throughout her time in French Court, but she couldn't stand the way that it sounded when rolling off of Sebastian's tongue.

"We are friends, are we not?" Inquired Mary, with what may have been the first true smile she had given all afternoon.

Sebastian lifted his chin and caught her eyes. "I would like for us to be."

Mary's smile widened as she elaborated, "then you should know; I insist that my friends call me Mary."

Sebastian unclasped his hands and relaxed, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from between Mary and himself, and he rounded his shoulders with an air of confidence.

"Alright. If I may be so bold, _Mary_ ," he said, averting his eyes out onto the ocean, "I do not believe that Catherine's cruelty is all that bothers you on this day."

Mary wet her lips and sighed, turning her own face out toward the crashing waves. His observation -though not _incorrect_ \- was disheartening. If the king's bastard son -who truly couldn't be bothered with Mary's sorrows and internal plights- was able to sense that she was upset, then surely she wasn't portraying herself as a future queen very effectively.

Still, a voice cried out somewhere in the back of her mind, it couldn't hurt to confide in someone…

Before she could overanalyze the sudden desire to share her secrets with him, Mary blurted out, "it's Francis. He is not like I remembered."

Mary could feel, rather than see, Sebastian's eyes flicking back onto her face as he examined her silently.

"You mean to tell me that he is no longer a child?" Sebastian asked, after a span, and she did not miss his teasing tone.

Mary turned to face Sebastian once again and narrowed her eyes, unsurprised to discover that he was, in fact, staring. "On the contrary, he is acting _quite_ childish."

Sebastian chuckled, once, and offered her a sincere smile. "Give it time. This is difficult for him as well."

Mary stared at Sebastian curiously, overwhelmed by his genuine kindness.

The young queen had known very little of King Henry's bastard son before arriving in French Court. It had been her dear friend, Kenna, who had informed Mary of Sebastian, and all of his rumored history; and Mary had sorted out the facts from the fiction, over the past week. Sebastian was favored by the King, above all other royal children – which was -sometimes awkwardly- apparent. He was the son of Diane de Poitiers, the king's alarmingly beautiful mistress. He was allowed free rein of the castle -inside and out- and was regarded as a 'lord' by most of the servants, despite his _situation_.

And he was, like his brother Francis, strikingly handsome… though, their paradoxical looks could not be more drastic.

It was a matter that greatly perplexed Mary, upon first meeting the brothers. Where Francis had fine, blonde locks of wavy hair, Sebastian had straight dark hair that hung loosely around his face. Francis' eyes were blue and bright, whereas Sebastian's eyes were unusually pale – almost seeming colorless, at times. Francis stood tall-ish (taller than Mary, of course) and thin with a narrowed face, yet Sebastian stood higher than his younger brother with an oval-shaped face.

Despite their physical differences, there were _other_ obvious contrasts that Mary had discovered between Francis and Sebastian. Francis was quick-tempered when Sebastian remained calm and even. Francis put his country before anything and everything else, whereas Sebastian seemed to put his heart first. Francis was a prince, and acted accordingly… and Sebastian was…

 _Wild and free_ , Mary had decided.

Sebastian cleared his throat and asked her, "Mary? What are you thinking about?"

Mary blinked back into reality, pushing aside her silly thoughts of _comparing brothers_.

"Nothing," she vowed quickly, awkwardly fingering the white fabrics of her dress.

"I swore I'd lost you for a moment there," Sebastian said with a lightness, referring to her silent span of deep thought.

Perhaps it was his pressing stare that drove her into confession, or perhaps it was his cheeky smile, but before she could stop herself - _again_ \- Mary found herself spilling her minds contents like a broken dam. "I was only thinking of how you and your brother are not alike… at all, really."

Sebastian considered this for a moment and shrugged. "We are only half-brothers."

His words catapulted Mary back onto her first day at French Court, when she had spoken with Francis within the privacy of her childhood quarters. He, too, had expressed that they were only half-brothers, yet, he had admitted to being envious of the freedom that his older sibling possessed. "He has said the same of you."

"Habit, I suppose," Sebastian started, momentarily glancing down onto the sandy ground at his feet. Mary swore she could see a hint of sadness as it shadowed his handsome features. "We are reminded of it constantly."

A home-sick longing began to creep up into Mary's senses as she thought of her own half-brother, James, who resided in Scotland with her mother, Marie. There was a likeness within their situations that tugged lightly at her heartstrings, urging her to be delicate with the matter.

"He envies you, you know? Your freedom." Said Mary, wishing to chase away the forlorn look that had begun to establish itself upon Sebastian's face.

"Yes, well," Sebastian started, glancing over his shoulder to inspect the distant courtyard, "we both possess things and have opportunities that the other desires."

Mary followed his gaze with curiosity, internally battling on whether or not she should continue to take advantage of Sebastian's sharing mood. He seemed to care deeply for Francis. And, perhaps, in caring for Francis, he also cared for Francis' future marriage…

"Sebastian…"

"We are friends, are we not?" He interrupted, snapping his attention back onto her face and mocking her with a wink.

Gladdened by the absence of his formerly dreary countenance, Mary indulged in his jesting. " _I would like for us to be_."

"Then you should know; I insist that my friends call me Bash." He said with a small tone of irony, sharing in their newly private joke.

" _Bash_ ," Mary started again with mock daintiness, before quickly shifting into a much more serious tone, "may I ask you something, and trust that you will be honest with me?"

Sensing her need for gravity, Bash evened his brow and nodded lightly. "Of course."

Mary pressed her lips together in an even line and avoided Bash's eyes by glancing down onto Stirling, who sat stilly at her side while lightly panting. "Did Francis love someone before I arrived?"

Bash shifted his weight from one foot onto the other, unmistakably troubled by her inquiry. When he spoke, his voice came out raw and uncertain, "physically?"

Mary already knew the answer to _that_. Francis was very likely _physically_ with a woman, even now. What she needed to know was if Francis had given himself -body _and_ soul- to another woman.

Drawing in a sharp breath of air, the Queen of Scots began to reconsider her question. Perhaps some things were best left unknown…

As if reading her thoughts, Bash spoke.

"Ah. I cannot speak for his heart," he whispered softly, before stammering on, "I - I _believe_ he did, yes. But she is long gone, and you are his betrothed. He understands that he has a duty to his country, and to his people."

So then, it was true; Francis had given his heart to another woman, which would explain his lack of trying when Mary attempted to form a bond. Meanwhile, she had spent the last ten years of _her_ life pining away for a boy who would never love her in return. And, as is custom with rulers and future kings and queens, Mary and Francis would be forced into a marriage that they never wanted or agreed to.

Mary tensed and glanced to Bash with a telling frown, unable to conceal her obvious dismay.

"It is all so _romantic_ , isn't it?" She inquired sarcastically, despite her better judgement.

Bash's brow furrowed. He looked as though he made to laugh, but his voice eventually broke past his amused smirk smoothly, "it is romance that you desire?"

No.

Yes.

Perhaps?

Mary's jaw did a series of pushups as she flattened her hands against her dress, oddly fidgety beneath Sebastian's pressing stare. "What I desire…"

Her voice trailed as she considered her words carefully.

There was a mountain of pressure upon Mary's shoulders, at all times. She was the ruler of a country. She was the protector of her people. She was a queen. And queen's, as an unwritten rule, did _not_ have the liberty of putting themselves first.

Bash watched her patiently – looking almost contented to do so. The look within his eyes -gentle, kind, and eager to listen- scooped Mary up into another momentary bought of grief. If only Francis would look at her in such a way!

Decidedly sick of feeling sorry for herself, Mary shook her hair back and forth and glanced upwards towards the brightening sky. A songbird flitted through the air, singing to the duo in greeting, and Mary watched as the small creature dipped and soared in playful merriment. How nice it must be, she considered, to be a songbird…

"What I desire right now is to laugh and have fun. I have been lacking in _both_ since I arrived in French Court." She stated earnestly, observing the small bird until it was lost among the trees.

Bash moved at her side, crouching down to the ground and sifting loudly through the pebbles and small rocks that scattered along the rough sand. Mary glanced to him, confused.

When he straightened, Bash shrugged his shoulders up into his neck and said simply, "then I will make it my personal duty to see to it that you laugh and have fun, every day."

Bash then twisted his hips towards the water's edge and chucked a flat stone out into the rolling tide. Mary watched as the rock soared out onto the ocean's waves and landed -once, twice, three times- along the water's surface, skipping across the top of the sea.

Mary's eyes widened and she gasped, intrigued, "how did you…"

"First, you must find a flat stone." Bash smiled, bending back down and fingering through an assortment of pebbles. He paused to glance up at her, inviting her to join him in his search.

Mary hesitated. There were times, back at the convent, when she had stomped through mud barefoot and rolled in thick piles of hay; but adults -rather, _queens_ \- did not act in such ways, and digging through stones and sifting through beach sand did not seem appropriate.

Though, it wasn't as if anyone were watching her now… aside from Bash, who certainly wouldn't criticize the action.

Mary stooped quickly to pick up a lopsided stone and examined it critically. "Will this do?"

Bash pressed his hands into his breeches, unbending at the knee, and stared down at Mary's rock with a lopsided smile. Without a word, he reached forward and snatched the stone from her palm before tossing it over his shoulder in a discarding motion. He then placed a new stone within her palm -one that was much more round and smooth- while holding a separate one within his own hand.

"Grasp it with your thumb and middle finger, then firmly hook your index finger along the edge." He instructed, leaning towards Mary while displaying the correct action with his rock. "Your thumb goes on the top of the stone, not around the edge. That's it! Now, stand with your side to the ocean and toss it with an arch."

Feeling confident, Mary threw the rock out towards the ocean with her best effort… and watched as the stone hit the beach, bounced once into the air, and then careened down into the water before sinking to the bottom of the tide.

Mary pressed her hand against her lips as a giggle began to erupt. She glanced to Bash, feeling embarrassed, and was amused to find that he, too, had his mouth slammed together in an effort to contain the rising amusement. Unable to curb herself, Mary dropped her hand and began to burst with rolling laughter, followed shortly after by Bash, who drooped his shoulders low and tossed his head back.

They laughed together for a while, captured within a moment of pure joy, and Mary felt a sudden lightness beginning to take hold of her chest.

Bash glanced to her as his steady chuckles began to fade, and he smiled softy. Mary returned the smile tentatively.

"Try again," Bash said, handing her the other stone while nodding with encouragement.

Mary held out her palm, obediently. This time, instead of dropping the stone like he had before, Bash gently took her hand within his own and adjusted her fingers to properly grip the rock. As he moved her fingers around the stone, Mary's senses were overwhelmed by the scents of pine and cinnamon that mingled within Bash's tousled mess of hair. She breathed him in as he moved his hands up to her shoulders, guiding her body to flank the ocean, and she felt herself beginning to lightly flush.

Having grown up being surrounded by nuns, Mary hadn't been handled by a boy -or, rather, _man-_ in her entire life, and it disconcerted her greatly.

"There," said Bash, at length, stepping back and taking his alluring scent with him, "toss it."

With little hesitation, Mary drew her hand back, inhaled deeply, and chucked the stone. It skipped four times, delicately curving up and down with the waves, then settled into the abyss of the ocean.

Mary clasped her hands, releasing a loud clap, and beamed. "That _is_ fun."

"You're a natural." Bash said, stepping forward and nudging her good naturedly with his shoulder. She gave him a smile in turn, catching the playful look within his eye and the small grin that began to tug at his lips. Mary appreciated Bash's carefree mien, and his ability to treat her -even if just for a moment- like she _wasn't_ the Queen of Scotland. She felt rather normal for a brief, fleeting amount of time...

The sound of conversating voices, somewhere far beyond them, broke the trance.

Bash crinkled his nose as he took a guarded step back, distancing himself from her. "I'll… leave you to it."

Mary watched as the king's bastard then bowed forward, displaying his genteel knowledge for anyone who may have been silently observing them, then turned to leave. She held back a wince as she watched him depart before turning back to face the loneliness of the ocean once again.

It wasn't until much later, when Mary had retired back into the castle herself, that she allowed Bash's pledge to fully sink in.

… _then I will make it my personal duty to see to it that you laugh and have fun, every day_...

Mary ran the tips of her fingers along the stone castle walls as she strolled the hallways in silence. Her lips stretched up into a smile as she thought of Bash; the only person within the royal family to offer her kindness since her arrival – bastard, or not.

The sound of a slamming door jarred Mary from her thoughts, causing her to pause in her travel. She was shocked to discover Kenna, her childhood friend and lady-in-waiting, emerging from around the corner. Her sand-colored hair was a disorderly mess, her dress was wrinkled and uneven, and her lips were uncharacteristically plump.

Despite her appearance, however, Kenna seemed enthusiastically giddy.

"Where have you been?" Mary demanded, airily. Her question echoed down the quiet hallway.

Kenna stopped short, gasping as she viewed Mary at the opposite end of the hallway.

"I-I've been looking for you," the girl stammered, but recovered quickly as she trotted towards Mary, "don't you look happy? What has placed such a smile on your face?"

Mary blinked in consideration of the complexity of her answer. What could Kenna possibly mean by _such a smile_? Had Mary's misery been _so_ apparent that even the slightest hint of joy brought forth waves of suspicion? Or, was her friend suggesting that the smile -in itself- seemed to be hiding a much different feeling? Without further hesitation, Mary gestured her hand towards the hallway's tall windows and commented, "the gorgeous weather, of course."

Kenna quirked a brow, steeling a glance towards the windows with apparent disbelief, then smiled, "of course."

* * *

 **B** ash burst into his younger brother's private quarters, after convincing the guard outside that he _did not_ need announcing, and held the door open as a short, brunette-haired girl shifted her way past him; exiting the room with apparent embarrassment. He watched after her thoughtfully as the girl fled down the stairs, feeling a pang of guilt beginning to rise, then flicked his eyes back into the prince's quarters to shoot his young brother a calculating look.

Francis, the Dauphin of France, sat merrily beneath the protection of white sheets, with his arms folded neatly behind his blonde head of hair. He was resting, bare chested, against the grand wooden headboard of his bed; looking plainly amused as he stared back at Bash. This was, oddly, a situation in which the brothers found themselves trapped within _quite_ often. Whenever Francis went 'missing', it was Bash's responsibility to locate the Prince of France and bring him forth to whatever event or meeting or party that was missing his young attendance.

This time, however, Bash sought out his younger brother for his _own_ selfish reasons.

"You look puzzled, Brother." Francis said, rather smug.

Bash closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a span, running his tongue across the front of his teeth. "I spoke with Mary."

Francis barked out a humorless laugh. "Oh?"

Bash narrowed his eyes upon the young prince while taking a few tentative steps towards the center of the room. It was cool and clean within Francis' quarters -save for the piles of clothes strewn lazily across the floor from his apparently rapid undressing- yet Bash could feel a heat beginning to travel, slowly, up the back of his neck. "Francis, what are you doing?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary." Francis replied quickly, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. When Bash showed no sign of amusement, Francis continued on, "would you like details?"

Bash folded his arms at his chest, watching as Francis proceeded to fling his legs over the side of the bed while stretching his naked back in an arch.

"You're going to continue to act like this? Even now that Mary is around?"

Francis groaned and rolled his eyes. "I am the future King of France, and I will do as I please."

"At what cost?" Bash hissed, feeling oddly torn.

There were few times when Bash did not support Francis' in his endeavors, much like how Francis was often more-than-willing to aid Bash in his foolish ploys. They had grown together, looked after one another, played together, laughed together, and helped shape each other into the men that they had become.

It was unusual for Bash to stand before Francis -as he did now- and question him.

Francis tilted his head to the side, blinking back at his older brother with rising confusion. "Why does it concern you so?"

Bash ran his hand across his face, rubbing his thumb and index finger deep into the sockets of his eyes. He was beginning to wonder the same thing, really...

Then an image of Mary flashed across his mind, and realization dawned.

He dropped his hand and sighed, flicking his gaze back onto his younger brother. "Can you not see that it hurts Mary?"

His brother snorted. "Our arrangement is strictly business."

Francis knelt forward and grabbed his discarded breeches from the floor, then performed a few awkward hops as he pulled them up and onto his legs. As he began to tie the string at his waist into a tight loop, he looked back up towards Bash and continued. "She is a queen. She understands. Besides, we could be married off to other people tomorrow, if it were necessary."

Bash sighed -again- and stooped down to collect Francis' shirt from the floor. He held the garment out to his brother at arm's length while inquiring, gruffly, "do you aspire to be like our father in every way?"

Francis rounded the bed and approached Bash with a wide smile. He then snatched the shirt from Bash and began the process of pulling his arms through the sleeves, one at a time, while muttering, "only in the _best_ ways."

Bash's heart fell, somewhere in the vicinity of his boots. He didn't want Catherine's words to be true about Francis; and he refused to stand idly by while his younger brother turned into the mirror image of their father -or _worse_ \- while Mary ended up in the same situation as his mother.

"Little Brother," Bash started, catching Francis by the arm as the prince headed for the door.

Francis turned, eyes ablaze with a look full of warning. "I am finished with your inputs, for the day."

Bash's jaw tightened, and he swallowed a thickness that had suddenly gathered within his throat. Without an utterance, he released Francis' arm and watched as the Prince of France stormed out into the hallway, vanishing into the shadows beyond his quarters.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ah, there it is!

I have an entire outline written up for this fic, and am pretty excited to dig into it… I just hope that there are some brave souls who are willing to take this journey with me. :) Let me know if you enjoyed it by following, adding to your favorites, or commenting!

Love.


	2. To See You Smile

**A/N:** First off, I would like to send out a HUGE thank you to everyone who has commented and added this story to their alerts/favorites. You all are fantastic.

Also, in this fic I am saying that Bash is three years older than Francis... since, I don't think there ever _really_ was a stated age for either boy. If I am wrong, please let me know… but, until then, that's the story I'm stickin' to. ;)

* * *

 **Chapter Two : To See You Smile**

 _You make me smile like the sun  
Fall out of bed, sing like a bird  
Dizzy in my head, spin like a record  
Crazy on a Sunday night  
You make me dance like a fool  
Forget how to breathe  
Shine like gold, buzz like a bee  
Just the thought of you can drive me wild  
Oh, you make me smile_

 _-Smile,  
Uncle Kracker_

* * *

 **T** he sounds of clashing wood and dancing feet echoed throughout the small, enclosed courtyard of the castle.

King Henry advanced on his eldest son with precision and great strength, swinging and slashing his wooden sword aggressively -left, right, center- while moving with a deadly rhythm that he had perfected through countless battles and tireless practice. Bash was quick to parry and deflect his father's blows with his own wooden sword, laughing loudly as Henry attempted to fleetly stab at his son's chest.

The king had great technique in sword fighting to be sure, but it was Henry who had taught Bash how to battle with a blade; firstly, as a young boy, and then well into his bastard son's adult years. As such, their practice fights always proved to be long, vicious, and well-matched – to say the very least.

"You will have to do better than that, Father!" Bash teased, jumping to the side as the King of France plunged at him.

Henry barked out a laugh that dripped with mild irritation as he slid to the left, narrowly avoiding Bash's sword as it sliced towards his right thigh. The king -noticing his chance, within that brief moment- then swung his weapon down around his bastard son's ears with a heightened aggression.

Bash caught the attack with his wooden blade, holding his father off in a sudden battle of strength. His muscles screamed and ached as he tensed and pushed against the older man's vigor; and Bash could see the flash of victory deep within Henry's piercing eyes as his sword pressed closer and closer towards his son's face. Then, unwilling to give up _just_ yet, Bash released a warrior-like cry while shoving his father away with all of his might. This caused Henry to take a stuttering step backwards, kicking up a cloud of loose dirt around his booted heels in a thick flurry. The king then squared his shoulders and nodded to his son in a tired show of approval.

Bash took advantage of the pause in their battle to suck air deep into his tired lungs as a single bead of sweat traveled down from his temple, colliding into the dark stubble that lined his tensed jaw. He dropped his sword down to his side, releasing the tight grip that his gloved fingers held around the wooden hilt, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy a cool breeze as it flitted through the relaxed fabrics of his shirt.

A sudden chatter of feminine voices sounded off to the right, causing Bash's ears to twitch in response. He turned his attention up towards the upper levels of the castle with curiosity, catching sight of Mary and her ladies-in-waiting as they made their way into the center of the castle; using the outer hallways of the courtyard as a quick shortcut to their destination.

The Queen of Scotland hesitated in her travel, as if she could feel Bash's eyes, causing her trail of friends to pause alongside her.

Bash found himself momentarily distracted as his gaze locked with Mary's; and the beat of his heart began to quicken beyond that of the exertion he had just put it through. Despite the watchful eyes of her friends -and, despite the eyes of his _father_ \- Bash smiled; and he was pleased to see Mary return the gesture, sweetly.

"Again?" Henry called out, re-capturing Bash's attention.

With a steady inhale, Bash brought his sword up into the ready stance. "Again."

Henry lunged quickly, smacking his sword against Bash's with a loud _crack_. Bash pushed against the king's sword, capturing their blades together, and grit his teeth as Henry released their locked weapons and swung at his midriff. Bash hopped backwards, bending slightly forward to avoid the swing of his father's sword, and then spun completely around to block a third blow.

They continued like this, back and forth, sparring for several minutes.

Finally, Bash weakened Henry down onto one knee, having the upper-hand advantage of attacking his father from a higher stance … but the king was quick to respond. In one smooth motion, Henry slapped Bash's swing away, and kicked his bastard son squarely in the stomach. Bash fell back into the dirt, grunting as the air completely evacuated his lungs.

He laid there for a moment, flat and defeated, staring into the opening above him where the fall afternoon's sky colored a blue canvas behind the distant clouds. He chuckled, in spite of his mild embarrassment, and slammed his gloved hand against the ground with disappointment.

As he captured his breath, Bash could hear the gathered group of observing ladies muttering amongst themselves with concerned tones; but the sound of his father's sudden laughter drifted up into the higher levels of the courtyard, drowning out all other voices.

"Your mind is elsewhere!" Henry said, offering his son an outstretched hand. Bash took hold of his father's forearm, allowing the king to help him up and onto his feet while brushing his back and shoulders free from dirt. "Is it slender Lady Charlotte or plump Lady Isabelle with the breasts like two pigeons, huh?"

Bash shot his father a cheeky smile. "If I told you, you might poach. You have a liking for pigeon, as I recall."

"A son after my own heart." Henry jested, rubbing a hand over his face. Sweat glistened against his balding head, brightly glancing the glow of the afternoon sun off into several different directions. "You're the lucky one, you know? Uncommitted to any alliances or engagements."

 _Hardly_ , Bash thought to himself, unable to control the flick of his eyes as he searched the upper levels of the castle for Mary. He managed to catch sight of her, as she turned to leave; and he watched with interest as Lady Lola gently urged her queen along with an air of importance.

"I'm not so sure." Bash rebutted, once he was certain that Mary and her ladies had traveled far enough from hearing. "Being engaged to a beautiful queen doesn't sound so awful to me."

"Ah, that girl is off-limits to you, Bash!" Henry said quickly, gesturing towards the area in which Mary had been standing. "If you fancy one of her ladies as a wife, however, I can make it so."

 _Fancy one of her ladies?_ Bash bit down on the inside of his lip to suppress the rising laughter. He certainly did not need his father's assistance in finding a wife – if ever he chose to pursue such an ordeal. In truth, Bash had never even considered marriage. He was married -in a sense- to the wild; and he was committed to his love of freedom. Any time that Bash had pictured a 'wife', he pictured a prison cell; and there was no woman within France that gave him reason to feel otherwise.

Well, no woman that was _eligible_.

This sudden thought gave Bash pause.

Then, without warning, Henry began swinging his sword once again. The king came in high, as he had before, slashing down towards the top of his son's head. As if following some deep instinct, Bash parried his father's swings by jabbing his sword upward and away, then swiftly used the hilt of his fake sword to knock the air free from the king's lungs by jabbing the handle into the center of his chest. Henry gasped, taking a step back, and furrowed his brow as Bash lifted the sharp end of his sword up into his father's throat.

As usual, Bash had taken an example from one of his father's attacks and improved upon it. And -for a moment- -Bash _swore_ the King of France looked at him as if he were greatly impressed.

With a smile, Bash finally answered his father. "That won't be necessary, Father; I prefer the hunt."

"Very good, very good." Said Henry in a sharp tone, tossing his sword to Bash with a smirk. "Clean up. I have business to attend to."

Bash caught his father's sword and nodded, waiting until the king was assuredly gone before allowing himself to relish within the joy of his small victory.

* * *

 **M** ary's private quarters were always a comfortable and safe escape for herself and her friends; proving to be the perfect room for them to gather within whenever they wished to speak freely amongst themselves. On this particular afternoon, they found themselves collected around the large fireplace within her quarters, all seated atop her finely decorated couches and armchairs in separate but intimate arrangements.

Greer, a wealthy daughter to a Scottish mining family, sat on the ground with her legs folded beneath her. Aylee, a well-off Scottish girl of title, was perched comfortably within the armchair behind Greer, maneuvering fancy braids into the back of her friend's long blonde hair. Kenna, another titled and rich lady of Scotland, sat sideways within a chair opposite Aylee with her legs hanging lazily over the edge of the armrest, swinging her knee-high stocking back and forth. Lastly, Lola, an upscale daughter of yet another titled family of Scotland, sat alongside Mary atop the plush couch, staring with amusement into the cracking flames of the hearth.

"Alright, Kenna it's your turn," said Mary through a bout of laughter, flashing her gaze onto Kenna, "not your first, but your _best_ kisser."

Kenna bit down onto her lip, glancing between each of the girls in turn, before shyly confessing, "it was a man, not a boy."

Mary could not contain the widening of her eyes as she exchanged a look of mirrored confusion with Lola. "Who!? You must tell us!"

Kenna giggled and dipped her head, avoiding the pressing eyes of her friends. "All I'll say is that there's no point in waiting for boys our own age, who have no idea what they're doing!"

"Well, I would accept my first kiss from a man _or_ a boy!" Interjected Greer, glancing up towards the ceiling with tightly-clasped hands as if she were speaking to God himself. "Please?"

They all shared a laugh and Aylee reached forward to place a reassuring hand atop Greer's narrow shoulder. Each girl then glanced expectantly towards their queen and Mary's stomach dropped with anticipation.

"I presume that Francis has kissed you by now, has he not?" Asked Lola, with a slight incline of her head.

Mary furrowed her brow and drooped her shoulders. She, too, would have presumed that Francis and herself would have shared a kiss by now; or at least formed some design of a friendship. But Francis and his father, the King of France, were in no rush to form an alliance with Scotland until it made sense politically. And, as could be expected in such a circumstance, Francis had kept his respective distance from Mary… and had shared his _friendliness_ with other ladies.

Still, politics aside, it would have been nice to have a connection with her betrothed. Mary scrunched her nose and sighed heavily, "oh – _no_. He hasn't."

"No?" Inquired Kenna, shifting her legs to the front of her seat and scooting towards the edge of the cushion. "I thought for certain that he had kissed you yesterday, when you were wandering the halls with that delighted smile…"

Mary felt her ears grow hot. "I told you; I had just been out, enjoying the day by the ocean."

"Alone?" Lola gasped, crinkling the freckles along her nose in dismay. "Mary, you shouldn't be out and wandering the grounds by yourself. Do you not remember what Colin said?"

Even now, Mary could hear the sorrow within Lola's voice as she spoke Colin's name. When the girls had first arrived at French Court, Lola had expressed her feelings for Colin, and informed her friends of how she had promised to wait for him in hopes of an eventual courtship. Unfortunately, their love story had little time to flourish before Colin was -as defended by _him_ \- forced into betraying his queen, jailed, escaped, and later found murdered within the woods.

"I wasn't alone," Mary defended, glancing down towards her hands, "I was with Stirling. And Bash."

Her ladies-in-waiting all exchanged telling looks, and Kenna pressed her lips together in a poor attempt at containing her rising smirk.

"What?" Mary inquired, bouncing her eyes between the four of them. Each girl winced and avoided her gaze, causing her to question them even further. "Do none of you trust him?"

"We trust him," Aylee began, slowly, "it's just…"

Mary drew in a frustrated breath as Aylee trailed off, and she looked to Lola with eyes that demanded an answer.

Lola blinked, glancing towards the flames of the fire once again. "He has a reputation. We all heard him today, talking with his father – the same father that he _shares_ with your betrothed."

Mary's mouth twitched as she bit back the rising desire to defend Bash. She had no true understanding of what her friends feared. She had grown up in a convent -yes- but she was no fool. She knew how to identify real problems when they were present… and befriending the king's bastard son seemed _hardly_ an issue. Bash had been kind and honest with her; and he may have been the only person to give true insight on Francis' odd behavior towards her. If nothing else, Bash would prove to be an ally in the years to come – _if_ she were to still marry Francis, God willing.

There was a long pause, then Kenna enlightened, "he certainly is handsome though, isn't he?"

Greer's brows shot up, Aylee's mouth dropped open, Lola's head snapped, and Mary's breath stopped short. It felt an odd thing to say, given the conversation, but it caught each of them off-guard nonetheless.

"Bash!?" Lola demanded of Kenna, breaking the silence.

"Of course, _Bash_! Who else would I be referring to?" Snapped Kenna, noticeably flushing.

Mary froze and straightened. She ran her hands nervously through the silk cloth of her maroon and gold dress, feeling the pressure of Kenna's question as if it were a knife held to her throat. "I … hadn't noticed."

 _Of course,_ that was a lie. She had noticed. It was impossible _not_ to notice. Bash was every bit as handsome as the sky was plainly blue; and certainly, _he_ knew it as well.

The door to Mary's chamber suddenly burst open, causing each of the ladies to jump slightly -as if they had been discussing something quite _scandalous_ \- and they each turned expectantly towards the sound. One of the guards who was stationed outside of Mary's door entered casually, staring at the Queen of Scots with apologetic eyes.

"Your Grace, Lord Sebastian requests an audience."

For a moment, Mary swore that she had misheard him; and if it hadn't been for the equally shocked looks displayed across her friends faces, she wouldn't have believed it.

"Well that's fortuitous…" mumbled Greer, glancing back towards Aylee.

Mary rose to her feet and turned to fully face the guard, speaking before any more commentary could be made by her ladies. "Let him in."

The guard nodded and backed out of the room. A moment later, Bash entered, and Mary felt her heart leap into her throat at the sight of him. He had cleaned himself up since sparring with his father. A velvet-looking button-up jacket replaced his former white shirt, and his breeches and boots had been replaced with more castle appropriate attire. He looked, in truth, more like a king's son than Mary had ever seen him look before.

"Ladies," said Bash with practiced ease, bowing before them, "you are all a vision."

"And non-too eager to join your list of achievements." Lola braved, causing Mary's eyes to snap onto her with heavy disapproval.

"Each of you is far and well beyond my reach, I assure." Bash smirked, quick to counter Lola's wit. "I could only aspire to wed a woman _half_ as fair, someday."

Greer, Aylee, and Kenna all laughed whole-heartedly, flattered, and Lola noticeably relaxed while cracking a small smile.

"Do you flirt with everyone?" Inquired Mary, searching Bash's face.

Bash smiled, widely, and there was a hint of challenge beyond his pale eyes. "Absolutely everyone."

Mary brushed her tongue along her teeth and shook her head in amusement. "What brings you, Bash?"

The king's bastard rounded his shoulders and straightened. "Your Grace-"

"Mary." Mary corrected, quirking a brow.

Mary caught sight of Lola's frown out of the corner of her eye as she glanced beseechingly towards Kenna, who _also_ looked perturbed. Bash's Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed down what Mary assumed was going to be a small laugh, at her friend's expense. Her ladies _certainly_ were not masking their opinions very successfully.

" _Mary_ ," he began again, "there's a matter that needs your tending to. Urgently."

Mary's eyes narrowed curiously. Bash held her within his gaze and smiled, a playful eagerness tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Very well." Mary agreed, at length, turning towards her friends. Lola looked as if she were going to challenge Mary's sudden decision, but the Queen of Scots spoke hurriedly over her chance of rebuttal. "I will see all of you at the party this evening."

She was, of course, referring to the dinner party that Catherine had _insisted_ on throwing for their English guests. The same dinner party, in fact, that had the young Queen of Scotland slightly on edge for the better part of the day. It was a difficult issue to swallow; knowing that she would be breaking bread with one of her greatest enemies in only a few short hours… but, such was the way of political alliances. It did not matter that the English radicals had made several attempts on her life. It did not matter that she was a threat to their current rule. And, it did not matter that their presence frightened Mary, greatly. She needed to mask any and all of her fears for the sake and protection of Scotland – and for the sake and protection of _France_.

Bash stepped to the side, like a gentleman, and waved his arm to the right in a manner that urged Mary to exit first. She obliged, shooting her friends a lasting look before leaving them to their undoubted whispers full of assumptions.

The king's bastard was quick on her heels, falling into stride alongside her as they made their way swiftly down the hallways of the castle. They strolled quickly at first, but soon Bash's feet took on a more laxed cadence as he silently motioned for her to turn down each new corridor with a smile and an open palm. He navigated them through the royal halls with a placid air to his movement, even pausing on occasion to acknowledge the familiar faces of servants and guards as they passed him by.

For something that he had claimed to be so urgent, Mary considered, Bash certainly was taking a tranquil approach to their travel.

After a span of silence, and what seemed an eternity of long, aimless walking, Mary decided it was time that she asserted herself. "Are you well, Bash?"

Bash glanced to her and brightened, inclining his head. "Quite."

With a furrowed brow, Mary trudged on. "Has something happened in Scotland?"

The king's bastard inhaled deeply, averting his eyes up towards the castle's tall, elaborate ceilings. "Not that I am aware."

Mary stared into the side of Bash's face with a guarded, somewhat suspicious look. "Is there something the matter with Francis?"

Apparently enjoying this sudden game of guessing, Bash wet his lips and brought his attention back down from the rafters. He stole a glance at Mary, clearly entertained, and smirked, "certainly not."

"Is it…" she dropped her tone as a man of class strolled busily past them, hoping to avoid his eavesdropping ears, "the English?"

"No, no." Bash quickly assured with a chuckle.

Frustration mounted as they moved into a more desolate area of the castle where far less guards, servants, and royals wandered. In truth, Mary rarely traveled into this section of the royal halls as it was an area designed to house guests and travelers; and she had yet to encounter a visitor that she cared to call upon on a regular basis. At present, the only visitors within the castle were a few English diplomats, who had escorted and aided in the arrival of Francis' younger brother's betrothed, Madeline, to French Court.

But why on earth would Bash bring her into the most isolated area of the castle?

 _He has a reputation…_

Mary's heart sank as a chilling thought occurred, and she paused. Her friend's warnings from before came rushing forward in full force, circling within her mind and securing her feet into the tiled floor. Bash certainly was acting _strange_ , and she wasn't sure that she should trust this mysterious side of him…

"What is so urgent then, Bash?" She demanded, folding her arms at her front as her sudden flash of irritation grounded her even further.

Bash paused as well, a few strides ahead of her, and turned with a quirked brow. "Do you not trust me, Mary?"

She did trust him. And, perhaps that was the problem.

"I do… I-I _want_ to." Mary muttered, unconvincingly even to her own ears, while tightening her arms around herself.

In truth, she still didn't know who she could trust within French Court. All she knew, in this moment, was that every bone within her body screamed at her to trust Bash; despite his strange demeanor and -perhaps even- her _logic_.

"Allow me to ease your caution," Bash began, turning fully to face Mary before walking towards her with an intenseness held in his eyes that she had not seen before. Though his face was serious, his voice rang out soft and kindly, "you have nothing to fear with me. I would never do anything to harm you. Ever. You are the future queen of France, and my little brother's fiancée… and I consider you a friend."

Mary softened and drew her gaze down onto the floor. Once Bash was within arm's reach of her, he dipped his head slightly forward so that their faces were even, willing her to look at him. His eyes were firm yet gentle as they searched hers, and his smile was back in full force as he said his next words.

"I would die for you."

Mary flushed for reasons that she didn't understand. This was not the first time that she had been told that men would die for her honor and safety; but there was something _different_ in the way that Bash proclaimed it, as if it were an affectionate promise …

"Let's hope it never comes to that." Mary said slowly, sincerely wishing that her words rang truth.

Bash tilted his head to the left, as if considering this for a moment, then backed away from her and continued his lead down the corridor. "Come, we are almost there."

Mary held down the frustrated sigh that threatened to escape her lips and replaced it, instead, with a smile. She took a few quickened steps to catch up to him, falling once again into stride alongside him, leaving her previous apprehensions far behind. "Where is 'there'?"

Bash shook his head and pressed his fingers into his temple, rubbing as if he were warding off a migraine. Then, with a playfully accusatory tone, he inquired, "do you ruin all surprises? Or only the good ones?"

"Surprises? So, there _isn't_ an urgent matter!" Exclaimed Mary, almost triumphantly. Bash remained silent, avoiding her pressing stare. With a light eye-roll, Mary squared her shoulders and mumbled, " _fine_ – no more questions."

Mary remained silent for the rest of their walk, finally allowing herself to welcome the distraction that Bash was providing.

In the back of her mind, she knew that once nighttime had blanketed the castle and the day was swiftly swept beneath the rug, she would be facing an enemy that she had long evaded. The English diplomats would be cordial to her beneath the French Court's roof -of this she was certain- but, that did _not_ diminish her ever-growing fear of their malice. She could not, and would not, shake the image of a nun -ears bleeding as she foamed aggressively from the mouth- dying in Mary's stead because a planned attack, by the English, had failed.

And, in knowing that, Mary reasoned that she could use a brief break from this reality.

After climbing a winding set of stairs they finally reached a long, empty hallway. It was low-lit with short brass chandeliers and lined with old wooden benches. The corridor was drafty, like much of the castle, but more noticeable due to the lack of bodies traveling throughout it.

Bash stopped at the start of the hallway and turned to Mary with a sideways grin.

"This wing was designed with a special tile in the flooring," he said, gesturing towards the ground, "it's smooth to the touch. No divots across the surface, and there are no large spaces between each piece."

Mary blinked. She glanced down to the ground, staring at the slick tiles at her feet, then brought her eyes tentatively back up towards Bash. She studied his face; starts at his strong jaw and moving up into the corners of his eyes, where small laugh-lines made handsome strokes across his soft skin. "Are you planning to become an artisan of tile?"

Bash chuckled and shook his head. He then bent forward, hooking his palm around the heel of his left boot, and removed it with ease. Mary glanced about her, scanning the empty hallway with surprise. Her ears twitched at the sound of his other boot as it fell onto the floor with a _clap_ , and Bash commanded, suddenly, "remove your shoes."

Mary froze. "I beg your pardon?"

"I thought there would be no more questions." Bash teased, straightening. Mary challenged him further with her pressing stare, and he continued with a sly grin, "you said that you wanted to have fun."

She could not deny it; she was quite intrigued. And, before she could question his motives -or her own- she slowly began to slip each heeled shoe off of her feet, one after the other.

"Francis and I used to do this as children." Began Bash, kicking his foot across the tile as if he were testing the warmth in a stream of water. Mary rose from her knelt position and studied him with growing anticipation, catching his eye for a moment. She could see, behind his playful smirk, that there was a wild excitement within him, brimming just below the surface.

In a flash, Bash then glanced down the hallway, narrowed his eyes, and took off running at a full-on sprint as Mary watched after him with heightened confusion; hastily trying to put reason to his actions. When he reached the middle section of the long hallway Bash spread his feet wide and steadied his arms out around him, like a set of wings, as he began sliding a great distance down the hallway. He flew past the empty benches as he glided with skill, causing the candles along the chandeliers to excitedly flick the air in his wake.

For a moment, Mary thought him insane.

It wasn't until he came to stop at the other end of the hallway and turned, smiling to her with his charming and infectious grin, when it dawned upon Mary that this was a game. His game. A silly, childish, _ridiculous_ game… but a game, none the less.

"Bash," she began, raising her voice so that her echoing statement would reach his distant ears, "I am not … _sliding_ down the hallway!"

"Are you afraid you will fall?" Bash called back, folding his arms at his chest and leaning his shoulder casually against the wall. Though a great distance stretched between them, she did not miss the challenging gleam within his colorless eyes.

"Wha-no!" Mary called back, rightfully offended. "I have _excellent_ balance! I simply… I am far too mature for this. _And_ a queen!"

"It is alright to admit fear, _Your Grace_. I won't judge you." Bash responded, his teasing tone reverberating off of the walls until it bounced -almost _mockingly_ \- around the inside of Mary's head.

Mary paled. She had half of a mind to reach down, grab her discarded shoes, and leave Bash -alone- at the other end of the hallway; returning to the safety of her quarters, and her friends, to continue her preparations for the evening ahead. She may have been young -and almost _childlike_ to some- but she _was_ a queen. She had a reputation to uphold as a leader and a ruler. She had an image to maintain. And yet, facts of nobility aside, something called to her -like a ghost from her past- telling her to indulge in the small, simple joys in life; for they would be few and far between.

 _Good God._

Without another moment of internal plights, Mary gathered the front of her dress up into her hands and began to run. The light patter of her feet bounced off of the walls and echoed back into the center of her ears, gaining in rhythm as she gained in momentum. Once she was halfway down the hallway she spread her feet and began to slide, taking advantage of Bash's example. As she gained speed, she released her dress from her hands and threw her arms out wide, smiling as the air flew through her dark tendrils in a flurry; and she felt very much like a bird, dipping and soaring through the wind in merriment…

And she knew, in that brief instance, what it must have felt like to be a songbird.

Bash pushed away from the wall and reached out to catch hold of Mary's arm as she slid past him, pulling her to an easy stop. The young Queen of Scot's couldn't contain the gasping laughter that burst past her lips as she looked to him – and she was amused to find that he looked _shocked_ by her bravery, despite his earlier taunting.

"I cannot believe that you brought me here to do _this_!" She giggled, brushing a dark strand of hair free from her face as she glanced back down the hallway from whence she came. She hadn't felt _this_ liberated in a long, long time; and, for a precious moment, she had forgotten that she was queen of _anything_.

"Yes, well," Bash started, recapturing her gaze with a small and somewhat coy grin, "to see you smile is to feel the sun."

Mary opened her mouth to respond – but before the words could form within her mouth, Bash slid his hand down and caught her hand within his own, grasping it tightly; causing Mary's stomach to knot in a way that she'd never felt. However, before she could analyze the sensation, Bash took off running once again, this time pulling her along with him. They began to slide, this time alongside each other, flying rapidly towards their scattered shoes at the other end of the hall.

Mary let out a small laugh as Bash reached for her waist, pulling her into a circle that spun them around, several times, until they came to an abrupt stop. For a moment they stood, gasping lightly for air as the thrill of their game flowed through them in rolling waves.

They were very close, practically breathing in each other's air, and Mary was once again overwhelmed by Bash's scent of pine and cinnamon; only, this time, she could imagine fresh air and far off places as she allowed it to wrap around her senses. Mary studied him for a span, taking in the most intricate details of his face...

"… _he certainly is handsome though, isn't he?"_ Kenna's words flashed into her memory with an effect that shifted the earth beneath her.

Suddenly, as if jarred back into reality by an invisible force, Mary became _very_ aware of Bash's hands, as they laid gently upon her hips. The heat of his palms began to burn through the maroon fabric of her dress, and his warmth traveled like molten honey into the pit of her belly.

The unexpected desire to lean into Bash's heat and draw him in closer was almost unbearable…

"What is this?" A voice, not belonging to either of them, asked loudly from across the hall.

Bash was much quicker to react to the sudden inquiry than Mary was, and his head snapped to the left with breakneck speed. His hands fell from her hips swiftly as he took a large step backwards, clearing his throat much louder than one would normally expect – almost as if he were hoping that his sincere surprise would travel within the discordant sound.

"Do you not recall this game, Little Brother?" Bash asked loudly, causing Mary's stomach to drop.

She flicked her eyes onto Francis, heartbeat quickening as she noticed his furrowed brow. He was glancing in confusion between them, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes, as he held his hands loosely around the opening of his gold and black embroidered dress coat. He was, like Bash, dressed appropriately for the dinner party; yet -as per their usual attire- he looked _completely_ opposite his bastard brother.

Francis wet his thin lips, hesitantly. He then raised his chin up and tilted his head to the side, calling back, "I… do."

Then, in an act that truly surprised Mary -and, as evident on his face, Bash as well- Francis leaned forward and began to remove his heavy boots, dropping them to the ground with a loud _thud_.

Mary could not contain the smile that spread across her lips as the Dauphin of France then ran and slid to them, much like Bash and herself had done before. Francis caught hold of his brother's outstretched hand as he arrived; and Mary could see a momentary childlike smile exchanged between them as their hands clasped.

Bash chuckled, patting his younger brother on the shoulder before releasing his grip on Francis' hand. "You're not as fast as you used to be, Francis."

Francis barked out a laugh, shooting Bash a toothy grin.

The French heir then looked to Mary, with a softness that she had not seen in days; and it bled hope into her beating heart. Their last private conversation, a few days prior, had ended with Francis informing Mary that he had no intentions of marrying her _unless_ it was right for France. This had, understandably, disheartened her in ways that she'd not known to be possible. Of course, it would be _difficult_ for Francis to end a predetermined engagement… but, he had seemed rather determined to dissolve it, if need be.

Mary ducked her head, avoiding Francis' piercing blue eyes. She could not give in to her hope _just_ yet.

"Do you still suppose that you can beat me to the other end of the hall, Brother?" Said Francis suddenly, twisting his torso to face Bash.

Bash scoffed in response, and rolled his shoulders up and down as if he were preparing for a lengthy battle. "Oh, _absolutely_."

A spark of playfulness ignited within their traded glance, and Francis jabbed a pointed finger at his brother while warning, "no cheating!"

Bash's eyes widened, and he returned the gesture with his own hand.

" _You_ were always the cheater!" Jested the king's bastard, taking a few steps forward and bending lightly at the knee, readying himself at an invisible starting line.

"Mary will be the judge of that." Said Francis, stepping into line alongside his brother and nodding towards the young queen. Mary laughed, once, in response.

"Nonsense – Mary will _join_ us." Bash said while elbowing Francis' arm, forcing him to make room in-between them for the Queen of Scots to slip in.

Mary's eyes bounced from Bash, onto Francis, and then back onto Bash.

 _He cannot be serious._

Bash's cool, silvery eyes glanced to her expectantly over his shoulder. Mary felt hard-pressed beneath his stare as he waved his hand forward in an encouraging motion. Her hesitation was fueled by several factors; the strongest one being that she couldn't imagine what someone would think if they were to witness the three of them _sliding_ down the hallway like a group of adolescents… and what if one of her enemies, who they were hosting, were to stumble upon the odd scene?

But, as Bash was clearly beginning to learn, the young queen had never been the type of girl to turn down a challenge; risk or not.

She gathered the fabrics of her dress once again, scooping the soft material into her palms as if she were holding freshly-picked flowers. Francis looked surprised – and yet, at the same time, there was a knowing smile upon his face as Mary settled herself in-between them. Surely, she reasoned, the Daughin could remember their time spent in French Court together as children; when they had been brave, playful, and full of life – sometimes, even, getting into trouble alongside one another.

Mary pressed her lips together as an oddly empowered feeling washed through her. It was a strange sensation, standing in-between Bash and Francis as their eyes both locked onto either sides of her face. There was -in a way- a sense of _power_ to their aligned stance; almost as if the Queen of Scots had an army flanking her on each side.

"One, two… three!"

* * *

 **B** ash had completely lost track of time as their game of sliding up and down the hallway finally came to an end.

He glanced up thoughtfully towards his little brother as the Daughin of France straightened from replacing his shoes onto his feet. Bash couldn't deny the swell in his chest as he looked upon Francis, watching with interest as his little brother approached Queen Mary and offered her his arm as she, too, began pulling her heels onto her feet. The smile that stretched across the Queen of Scot's face, as she allowed Francis to help her, put Bash at ease. In truth, after their previous conversation, Bash was beginning to wonder where his little brother's heart was trailing; and he'd feared it was tumbling into a cold, dark place that he would never recover it from.

Now, however, as the trio began to make their way out of the empty corridor, Bash could sense the warmth beginning to return in Francis' heart; and, perhaps, the French heir would begin to put the past behind him, and focus on being happy with his betrothed. It would be a trickling effect, like a flowing stream of hope; for if Francis were happy, then Mary would be happy…

 _And Mary will stay._

Bash's heart pounded with a heightened ferocity.

He _loved_ Francis; and he had loved Francis from the moment he had set eyes upon him as a crying babe. Bash wanted to believe -no, he _had_ to believe- that his intentions with Mary were fueled only by a powerful, brotherly bond… but, even _he_ could never convincingly lie to himself.

Bash inwardly kicked himself as he fell into stride alongside his brother and Mary, making sure to keep his eyes focused down onto the floor before his feet. There was a part of him -loud and persistent- that reminded him of his place among French Court; and of his place beside the beautiful Scottish Queen. He was _nothing_ -a nobody, in truth- and was only allowed his stature and role among the royals by the good graces of his father. If he were to do _anything_ to jeopardize that…

As they approached the stairway that would lead them down onto the first level of the castle, Francis momentarily halted.

"Do you remember when we slid down the hall and onto the banister?" Francis asked of Bash, snapping his wandering attention back into place. Bash's jaw reflectively tightened as he glanced to Francis with pause. The French heir then flicked his blue eyes onto Mary, who paused slowly between them, and mumbled to her in a teasing tone, "I very nearly thought I was going to die."

Mary giggled at Francis' words, drawing Bash's attention, and the sound of it washed over the king's bastard like a cleansing bath. The young Queen of Scotland liked Francis; and it was written all over her face. She had arrived in French Court prepared to give Francis her heart and soul, no matter what, and her stubborn loyalty would not be swayed by the Dauphin of France's forgivable mistakes of the past.

"You thought that _you_ were going to die?" Inquired Bash of Francis, recollecting upon the day of which his younger brother was referring to. He could see it, as if it were yesterday; two small boys, aged seven and ten, running up the stairs, sliding down the hallway, and jumping onto the banisters as if they were a couple of wild monkeys. Bash laughed at the thought, reminiscing, "Catherine almost had me beheaded when she caught us!"

Francis ran his hand along the banister as the trio descended the stairs, shaking his head with a laugh. "You were always coming up with the most ridiculous games."

"That doesn't sound like you _at all,_ Bash." Mary chimed in, sarcastically.

"I am duty-bound to the both of you. I am simply keeping your lives entertaining." Bash said with a mock-bow, causing Francis and Mary to laugh good-naturedly.

There was a sense of camaraderie hanging in the air between the three of them, and it was a feeling that Bash imagined he could get used to… if he weren't allowed to enjoy any other feelings.

"Hold on," Francis said, once they had all reached the bottom of the stairs. Bash and Mary stopped in their tracks, each glancing to him curiously, before Francis grinned to Mary and said, "your hair looks as if – well, as if you've been sliding down the hallways all afternoon."

Mary bit down onto her lower lip as a shy smile stretched across it, and Francis reached forward to gingerly tuck a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear.

Bash pressed his mouth into a hard, protective line; hoping to conceal the feeling of envy that threatened to crack through his stoic demeanor. He wanted to tear his eyes away and continue walking; leaving Mary and Francis alone in their moment of courtship…

But he knew, in that moment, that he couldn't walk away. He needed to witness it. He needed to be reminded that Mary was untouchable. He needed to accept that she _belonged_ with Francis.

"Would you allow me to accompany you to the party this evening?" Francis asked lowly, pulling his hand slowly away from Mary's face and leaving her somewhat breathless.

Bash noticed the slight swell of Mary's lower lip as she released it from its hold between her teeth.

"I would be honored." She replied, bowing her head forward. Francis watched her with gentle eyes, seeming pleased with her response.

"Excellent. We need to show the English that Scotland and France are a united front. And…" Francis trailed for a moment, twisting his mouth into an embarrassed grin, "it wouldn't hurt for us to begin acting like an engaged couple – or, at least, friends."

"Friends?" Mary echoed, receiving Francis' poor attempt at flattery with grace as she laughed. "Is that what we are now?"

"Well, it's a good place to start, if there's to be any _real_ chance between us." Said Francis, with a lightness that flowed smoothly throughout his sincere words.

"Yes, it is a good place to start." Mary agreed.

"Bash will surely be there, too – won't you, Brother?" Francis inquired, reeling Bash into the conversation as if he were a dog being offered a bone.

Bash was silent for a span, recalling the last party that they had all attended.

As if reliving it, the image flashed before his face of Mary and her friends all playfully dancing in the center of the dance floor, twirling and spinning beneath the falling feather's that had been dropped from the ceiling. Bash had found himself completely lost within the way that the young Scottish Queen whirled around; with her dress fluttering around her as if she were a blooming flower and her hair flowing in a way that seemed to create the roaring winds of winter itself. She was everything, in that moment.

Everything that he would never have.

Finding his voice, Bash smiled. "You know me, Little Brother. I always attend events where there's wine, food, and lovely maids."

"Is that so?" Mary challenged, raising her brows with fake surprise.

Bash opened his mouth to respond -perhaps, even, to _defend_ his pride- but it was Francis who spoke in his stead. "You should have seen him at the spring festival last year. There were two ladies, Lady Beatrice and Lady Francine, who were vying over Bash's affection the entire night. We were all gathered around the dance floor, when-"

"My Lord!"

A voice called out, cutting Francis' words short like a sword to a tightly strung rope. With mild irritation, the Dauphin of France turned to acknowledge the fast-approaching guard, whose metal boots cracked loudly against the tile flooring as he moved with blaring haste.

Bash swallowed, roughly, as a foreboding feeling began to rise from the center of his chest.

With a breathy gasp, the guard bowed before Francis. "Pardon me, but we found a woman running at the perimeter of the woods. She's had quite a fright. Her carriage was overrun by bandits… and she's asking for you."

Just then, as if on cue, the castle's main doors swung open with a loud _bang,_ and a sea of servants and guards came rushing in. Among them, there was a girl who plainly stuck out as someone of wealth due to her bright, beautiful attire; a long, cream colored gown matched with a green shawl that shimmered with flecks of silver. She had flowing golden hair, a pale complexion, and piercing blue eyes that searched the halls desperately for a familiar face. She looked terrified and exhausted, and the dirt at the base of her elegant gown proved that she had been wandering on foot for a while.

When her searching gaze finally landed upon Bash's younger brother, the girl gasped in relief; and Bash recognized her through the dismay.

 _Olivia_.

"Olivia." Francis breathed, giving audible life to Bash's realization.

Without a moment's hesitation, the French heir rushed to Olivia's side, pulling her into his arms and cradling her against his chest.

"Francis!" Olivia exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck while leaning into his embrace. After a moment she pulled away, staring up at Francis with glistening, tear-stricken eyes, "we were attacked! They killed my servant, right in front of me, dead!"

Francis took Olivia's face within his hands and shushed her, whispering to her in hushed tones that could not reach Bash and Mary's ears.

"That poor girl," Mary sounded at his side, clasping her hands at her front, "who is she?"

Dread curled within Bash's throat, like a poisonous snake. He watched in silence as Francis ran his hand across Olivia's disheveled hair -almost _adoringly_ \- causing the king's bastard to internally wince.

"She's Olivia D'Amencourt," Bash began finally, still unable to tear his eyes away from the scene ahead, "her family lived at court for a time. She left a few months before your arrival. I had assumed that she would not return."

"Why would she not return?" Mary asked, diligently.

"She left for an offer of marriage. Returning here would - _ah_ …" Bash trailed, knowing that he would have to choose his following words with care. Despite his efforts, they still burned as they tumbled past his lips, "conflict with that."

"Conflict with her marriage…" Mary repeated. Bash could feel the moment that realization reared its ugly head within the Queen of Scot's mind, clouding the air between them like a thick, ominous fog. Mary sighed heavily before slowly asking, "that's her, isn't it? The girl that Francis loved?"

Bash was silent as Francis suddenly whisked Olivia away, leading the shaken girl gently down the hallway with one arm draped across her narrow, shaking shoulders.

Vaguely alarmed by his younger brother's lack of decorum, Bash shifted his weight beneath him uncomfortably as he considered Mary's inquiry. He very much wished that he could withdraw his confessions from the day before, when Mary had pressed Bash for details about his brother's complicated past…

"Bash, it's alright. You can tell me."

Bash inhaled and squared his shoulders, tearing his eyes off of Francis and Olivia's retreating backs, and shifting them -with force- onto Mary. He then spoke, with a carefully toneless voice, "yes. Francis loved her."

Mary inhaled a shaky breath at his side as she stared into the crowd of flustered servants and guards who buzzed with gossip and hearsay. After a span, she whispered, "I see."

Bash's heart plummeted. He could see the hope within Mary's eyes -once vibrant and bright- beginning to disappear, like a slow-fading candle.

"I'm… certain that you have nothing to worry about." He said slowly, offering her a kindly smile.

Mary's gaze suddenly drifted up onto Bash, causing his stomach to flutter and drop.

He swore, for a moment, that there was something hidden behind her deep brown eyes. Something that mirrored Bash's heart. Something that called to him -from a far, _far_ away place- telling him that she was more like him than she would ever be like Francis. Something between them that burned so deeply, Bash would _never_ be able to escape it.

Something _more_ …

"Won't you excuse me?" Mary said suddenly, replacing her shaky breath with a powerful tone that only a queen could successfully display. Her face clouded over into a hard glare, and she tore her eyes away in a flash of anger.

"Mary…" Bash whispered softly, reaching for her… but he drew his hand quickly back as Mary retreated down the hallway, leaving nothing but a cool breeze in her wake.

Bash silently watched as the Queen of Scots departed, wallowing within the sense of shame that lingered heavily between his shoulders.

* * *

 **M** ary shut the door to her private chambers behind her, pressing her back heavily against the sturdy wood as her legs threatened to give way beneath her. She felt foolish to have believed -for even a _moment_ \- that her and Francis could have had a chance at true happiness. A chance at true _love_.

A soft cough brought her attention to the left, and Mary was surprised to find Lola standing alongside her bed with a pale hand resting against one of the four tall bedposts.

"Lola? What are you still doing here?" Asked Mary, pushing softly away from the door.

"I was concerned for you." Said Lola in a matter-of-fact tone. She held a loose strand of her brown tendrils within her right hand, and was twirling it around her finger absentmindedly as she studied Mary's face. She wasn't showing any signs of concern for Mary's _current_ dilemma; and for that, the Queen of Scotland was thankful. "What was it that needed your attention?"

"Oh – nothing. Bash was just… well." She paused, trying to conjure into words what _exactly_ Bash had done for her on this day. "He's being a good friend. It's difficult to explain."

Lola took a few steps forward, softening as she captured Mary's eyes. "You need to take care with Bash. He has feelings for you."

Mary's jaw fell, almost to the floor.

"Nonsense!" She argued, almost finding humor within the accusation. "You heard him, he flirts with everyone!"

Lola deadpanned. "I heard him. But I also _see_ him – and the way that he looks at you."

Now it was Mary's turn to look impassive. She, too, took a few steps towards Lola, meeting her oldest friend and lady-in-waiting at the center of the large room. The crackling fire at the far end of her private quarters cast dark shadows across the Queen of Scotland's fair complexion. "You're mistaken, Lola. Besides, I am engaged to Francis! I'm committed to that…"

The words burned, even as she spoke them. She _was_ committed to Francis, truly. He, on the other hand…

No. She couldn't think of this now; not with an audience.

"I apologize. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm simply..." Lola began, but Mary's cutting glare stole her breath along with her words. She drooped her shoulders, looking defeated, and gestured towards the vanity at the edge of the room. "Shall I help you get ready for the party?"

Mary's eyes flicked onto the makeup, brushes, and hair pieces sitting stilly upon her vanity, and her heart sank. She couldn't imagine going to the party now. This day had drained far too much from her; and she couldn't celebrate at a time like this.

Besides, she analyzed silently, her escort _surely_ wouldn't be attending, after this evenings most recent events.

"I'm feeling unwell," Mary snapped, harsher than she had intended. Lola's eyes widened -for a second- and then relaxed. "I – I just want to retire for the night. Thank you for your concern. Please inform Queen Catherine that I have fallen under the weather, and that I apologize for my absence."

"Mary, you need to show face with the English-"

Mary was long past delicacy, and snapped, "that will be all, Lola."

Lola hesitated, looking as if she longed to say something more; but the look within Mary's eyes drove her to the doorway where she disappeared beyond it without further hesitation.

Once she was alone, as was signaled by the light thud of her latching door, Mary crossed the floor of her chambers and sat at the edge of her bed. With a shaky inhale, she pulled her knees up to her chest as her long gown fanned out around her like a protective, elegant drape.

A sudden torrent of emotions collided within her, birthing a feeling of pain that she could not control. She wanted to cry, and to hide, and to curl up in the darkest of corners as she mourned the death of her ridiculous childhood dreams.

She thought of her youth at the convent, and how she would pick the flowers in the fields and collect dazzling pebbles along the dirt – imagining that, one day, she would take romantic strolls with Francis and that they would gather these beautiful things together. She then thought of her betrothed, cradling Olivia within his arms; and her wonderful, picturesque, youthful dream was destroyed in the wake of its shadow.

A crumbling pressure tightened within her chest; and Mary felt very broken, foolish, and _alone_.

Then, a spark of something fragile and promising flickered to life among the deluge. A vow, spoken to her on her first day at French Court, quietly chased away the heartache as it reminded her…

" _You are not alone here."_

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_

:D -falls over- .

That was a rollercoaster, eh? Tell me what you guys think so far! I would love, love, love to hear your feedback! Tell me what you like, tell me what you hate, tell me what you think I'm doing with my life… well, _perhaps not that last one_.

As always, add this to your favorites/alerts if you're enjoying it!

Love.


	3. If You Wish It

**A/N:** You guys. I wish I could hug all of you. Your comments/favorites/likes have been so encouraging! :) (whoever said, "please update immediately" … that made me laugh, you're awesome.)

I know that Olivia's arrival/Michaelmas were not at the same time in the show, but from here on out I'm pretty much sticking to my own plot and using pieces of the show to glue it into place. Let me know if it gets confusing… or if you have questions!

And yes, I am going to just throw this out there before you delve into this chapter; I am 100% making up names of villages and landmarks in this fic. Ha.

* * *

 **Chapter Three : If You Wish It**

 _Turn around take it back to yesterday  
Now I know everything that I need to say  
You're the words on my lips and the melody  
You're the key to the door that will set me free_

 _So I keep holding on, when the world is falling  
Holding on, when the light is calling  
Holding on, when forever rolls on through  
I'll be holding on to you_

 _-Holding On,  
Johnny Stimson_

* * *

 **T** he white cloth between Bash's hands steadily became streaked with sticky, dried blood as he rubbed it frantically against his palms; desperately attempting to free his skin from the gory mess that painted and stained his flesh and clothes.

He could feel both sets of his father _and_ Catherine's eyes, as they pierced through him from their perched positions atop their separate thrones. The French King and Queen were adorned in similar attire on this day; both of their shoulders covered with heavy red shawls, hemmed at the neck with thick animal furs and bold, green embellishments. Their golden crowns glinted in the morning sunlight, vividly gleaming in a way that constantly reminded any and every passerby of their royal -and _far_ superior- status.

Earlier that morning, when the sun had only just crested the eastern horizon, Bash and a small group of guards discovered the remains of Olivia's driver and servant within the woods. Their bodies had been strung up and butchered, like a couple of wild animals, in what appeared to be a ritual sacrifice. The arrangement had been uncannily similar the scene that Bash and Francis had stumbled upon when they had discovered Colin's body within the wood several days prior; only, this time, Bash hadn't needed to recite any old pagan rhymes to ward off the villainous vagrants.

Instead, the king's bastard had immediately cut the bloodied bodies down and collected them onto the back of his horse; despite the aggravating warnings from his two accompanying guards.

After the first incident, Bash had assured Francis that the pagan verse he had recited within the woods had merely been a jumbled ballad, pulled from the collections of frivolous riddles and senseless songs that he could vaguely recall from his childhood. And, at the time, Bash had been confident that his younger brother would _never_ bring the matter up again…

Now, however, they had been forced to re-visit the events of that horrific night; banding together to confirm that both the attack on Olivia's carriage and Colin's assault had been conducted by the same group of transients.

So, here the half-brothers stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching as King Henry and Queen Catherine each swallowed the news of Bash's discovery. Internally, both Bash and Francis were hoping that -together- the four of them could develop a plan that would end this whole _gruesome_ ordeal all the sooner.

It was the king who spoke first, running his thumb and index finger against his temples as he eyed the boys with a lifted brow. His gaze eventually shifted fully onto Bash, eyes resting upon him for a span before his complexion darkened with a wash of turmoil. "Tell me if I understand what you've witnessed correctly; you discovered the bodies of Olivia's servant and driver… hanging from a tree, with their throats slit, drained of blood?"

Bash slowly dropped the cloth -which was now _completely_ doused with foreign blood- down to his side. Out of all the places within the kingdom to be currently standing, this was not Bash's first choice. He had never been the type of son who attended royal meetings, and he spent much -if not _most_ \- of his life doing what he could to _avoid_ politics altogether. Still, the king's bastard knew how to treat a diplomatic dilemma with poise – and he understood how to conduct himself when handling delicate matters within the throne room.

With a steady voice that carried strongly throughout the illustrious hall, Bash spoke, "yes, it appeared to be some kind of sacrifice, for ritual purposes."

"I believe that the pagans are behind this, Father. They are luring people in." Francis added, shifting his eyes eagerly between each of his parents.

Bash swallowed thickly as King Henry adjusted loudly within his throne.

"Pagans?" Catherine barked, with a sharp laugh, causing Henry's jaw to noticeably strain as he eyed her with raw vigilance. The queen proceeded to then slap her hand loudly against the thick armrest of her royal throne, clicking her bejeweled rings across the hard, wooden surface. "What do you two know of _pagans_?"

Bash and Francis exchanged a quick look, both uncertain of what to say.

The king, however, did not wait for a response. "I see no logic in rushing to conclusions; this sounds like it was a barbaric attack on a noble woman who traveled with little protection. Nothing more."

Catherine looked pleased, straightening within her seat.

Bash inhaled a sharp breath. Internally, he struggled to tackle down the rising desire to _challenge_ the king and queen, while demanding that they see _reason_ beyond their obvious fears. On the one hand, he understood that such a claim was dangerous, not only for the kingdom but for _himself._ Yet, on the other hand, Bash _also_ understood that evil -such as this- had the power and capability to reach within the French Court's walls if it remained to be left ignorantly disregarded.

Unfortunately, and despite these indisputable facts, Bash understood that it was _far_ beyond his rights to question the finalizing decisions made by the King of France… eldest son, or not.

Francis, however, gripped no such concerns; and the sudden sound of his confident voice brought forth a sense of relief onto Bash.

"This display of slaughter was no different than that of the Scottish boy we discovered in the wood, several days ago." The Dauphin pressed, keeping his tone light and airy.

" _That_ was justice served." Catherine argued, raising her voice as if the pitch of her tone would diminish any further arguments to come.

Feeling bold and growing weary of Catherine and her political games, Bash snapped. "Every man answers to the king, even in death! It is not a commoner's right to determine what is just!"

Catherine's eyes widened in a display of pure agitation. She leaned forward within her throne and quirked her head to the side, practically sucking the air from Bash's lungs like a hungry leech as she stared into him with impassioned ferocity. "Speaking of 'commoner's rights'; shall I remind you of your place among us, Bastard?"

"Enough!" Henry shouted, causing a tense silence to ensue between the four of them.

Bash internally kicked himself while averting his gaze down onto the ground, staring at the smooth, cool tiles below his leather boots. Catherine was right, of course; though it pained him to admit it. Bash had no rights and no authority - _truly_ \- other than the mild respect that his father had demanded he be given within the castle walls.

Even so, there were some things in life that Bash could _not_ easily accept; like his complete lack of power within French Court.

The silence stretched and Bash eventually glanced up, uncertain of what he would find within his father's eyes. He was shocked to discover Henry looking back down at him thoughtfully, with a hint of sadness brimming just below the surface of his gaze. After a span, the French King spoke, in a voice so soft and affable that it shocked both Bash and Francis alike. "I have heard of similar disturbances reaching the towns at the outskirts of our lands. Specifically, within a small village, North of the waterfall at the Bay River."

"I know of this village." Said Bash, this time resolved to keep his temper in check. He twisted his fingers with irritation into the cloth that hung loosely within his left hand; avidly avoiding the French Queen's stare as he could feel it honing sharply into the side of his face.

Suddenly, as if her abrupt understanding of the matter kicked her squarely in the chest, Catherine spun within her seat, eyes burning. "Henry, you can't be serious. You're going to send our soldiers on a wild goose chase after some radicals in the forest? If word of this gets out, there _will_ be panic!"

"No, I am not." Responded Henry, coolly. He leaned back against the cushions of his throne and cleared his throat, seriously contemplating something internally, before snapping his fingers in delight and brightening. "I am leaving it up to Francis, since this seems to be a matter he is passionate about. It will be a good lesson for our future king; regardless of the outcome."

Catherine's uncontainable sound of disgust echoed throughout the throne room in the form of a hack. Bash and Francis exchanged a glance, biting back the pompous smiles that threatened to stretch across their lips. Once they were certain that they had contained their bursting beams of pride, Francis nodded to Bash and flicked his eyes back up onto their father. "I believe it is worth looking into, Father. I will send Bash and a small convoy into this village to investigate the rumors."

"Why not just send Sebastian alone?" Asked Catherine, pursing her lips as she narrowed her eyes upon Bash's face with distaste.

Bash took a breath, steeling himself, before meeting Catherine's stare.

The French Queen smirked, and it looked sharp and dangerous upon her face. Her fingers tensed into fists as her mind began to roll through all of her options in one fell swoop; and Bash swore, for a moment, that she may burst into a million hateful pieces. He challenged her glare, silently willing her to say _one_ more pernicious thing...

Francis took a step forward, shielding Bash from Catherine's eyes while breaking their locked stare. He then spoke, to his mother, through tightly gritted teeth, "I will not send my brother into such a hostile and violent situation without protection!"

Catherine's jaw tensed.

Francis' words had a sobering effect, and -with more effort than he'd care to admit- Bash relaxed. He was used to being the more even-keel brother, between he and Francis, and the king's bastard _hated_ the moments in which Catherine was successful in crawling beneath his skin. It was rare, to be sure, but on the scarce occasion that she _actually_ succeeded at cutting him to the core, Bash _needed_ Francis to step in and calm the rising waves.

Henry raised his hand to silence them, shooting Catherine a cold glare. The queen looked distraught -perhaps betrayed- as she shrank beneath the king's eyes. Henry then leaned his elbow against the armrest of his throne and smiled at his sons, showing too many teeth to be sane. "Very well. Keep this business to yourselves – I do not want this turning into hysteria."

Francis dipped his head forward in a display of appreciation. He then spun about on his heel and caught Bash by the arm, gently leading his older brother out into the corridor beyond the throne room. As they left, they could hear Catherine's hand slapping angrily against her throne; and Bash was glad to be missing out on the uproar that inevitably followed.

They traveled in silence for a while, passing through the busy common room where a gathering of rambunctious English nobles sat, enjoying a late morning's breakfast. Fifteen sets of foreign eyes all trailed warily after the king's sons as the boys moved swiftly through the hallway; and it did not go unnoticed by Bash how they all dropped their once-roaring banter into a low, quiet timbre. And, despite their hushed efforts, he could still hear the accusatory mumbles about France's delicate alliance with Scotland…

 _And_ how Francis and Mary did not seem to be as 'tightly-knit' as French Court had led the alliance to believe.

Of course, Queen Mary's absence from the recent party, and Olivia's sudden arrival to French Court, had both bred life into several problematic rumors; and the English diplomats were fixating on the possibility of a broken engagement between the Dauphin and the Queen of Scots.

Francis' fingers, which still clung to Bash's arm, tightened in response to the odious mutters. This, both boys knew, was dangerous. If England had reason to believe that Scotland did not have the backing of France, rumors would spread into theories, and theories would bloom into plans of attack. These reports would not bode well for France, and they _certainly_ would not bode well for Scotland.

Once they were free from unwanted witnesses, Francis pulled Bash into the privacy of the castle's empty study, closing the door behind them with urgency.

Bash moved casually into the center of the room, rounding the large, disorganized desk. He ran his fingers along several books and maps, all messily strewn across the surface of the table, and paused to pick up a blank, rolled-up parchment. He twisted the paper in-between his hands for a span, waiting patiently for Francis to disclose his unusual behavior; but no such explanation ensued.

Eventually, Bash lifted his cool, silver eyes cautiously up towards his brother; and watched in confusion as Francis ran a quaking hand across his pale face. The Dauphin then began to pace back and forth, raking his fingers through his blonde curls with obvious distress.

"You're sour. What is it?" Bash remarked, attempting to sound moderately light-hearted as he dropped the parchment back onto the table with a light _clap_.

Francis glanced to Bash out of the corner of his eye, somberly. "What did you tell Mary about Olivia?"

Bash's brows shot up, and his eyes trailed haltingly after his pacing brother as he contemplated an appropriate answer. In his mind, what Bash _wanted_ to say was, _I told Mary the truth about you and Olivia_. In reality, what he said was, "why would you assume that I told Mary _anything_ about Olivia?"

"For one, Mary was absent from the party last night, if you hadn't noticed." Francis began, pausing to spin around on his heel and jab an accusatory finger in Bash's direction, "also, I _know_ you, Brother. You never cared for Olivia, and you _do_ care for Mary."

For a beat, Bash's throat caught. He didn't _enjoy_ the apparent implication that dripped thickly from his brother's accusatory tone.

"Mary is your betrothed! I only told her that Olivia was your past lover." Bash sighed, and it was a weary sort of sound – almost desperate, in a way. Francis expelled a hiss of breath in response, heavy with disbelief.

In an effort to reign in the vigor, Bash smirked and added, "I never said of _how many_ lovers..."

Francis took a breath, narrowing his eyes. "Don't be an ass! And keep your opinions to yourself."

Bash had no witty reply for that. "Well, forgive me if I overstepped. Is that all?"

"No. Bash," Francis suddenly softened, shifting into a much more delicate approach while simultaneously derailing his older brother. "I know that you have… some kind of a _connection_ with these pagans-"

In a move that instantly silenced Francis, Bash flew around the table at the center of the study, closing the space between them, and hissed, "I do _not_ have a connection with any human sacrifices, Francis!"

" _Be that as it may_ , I will be sending a small convoy along with you. For your protection." Francis continued at a whisper, seemingly unfazed by Bash's outburst, "you interrupted a sacrifice, Bash! I can't imagine that these people, whoever they are, will take kindly to that."

Bash turned away from Francis and glanced down onto the bloodied cloth still hanging loosely within his hands, and a sense of sobering apprehension flowed through him as the Dauphin's words struck a chord. The king's bastard had witnessed _terrible_ things in the past week. Terrible things that - _if_ not handled with _absolute_ care- had the potential to ruin his entire life.

Staring numbly onto the once white fabric while twisting it between the tips of his fingers without mindfulness, Bash respired, "as you wish."

In a flash, Francis moved to Bash's side and placed a heavy hand atop his brother's shoulder, squeezing down onto the dark leather fabric in an act of reassurance. "Take the day to rest, Brother. You will leave tomorrow, at first light."

* * *

 **Q** uiet as a shadow, Queen Mary walked alone through the hallways of the castle. The warmth of the mid-morning sun shone pleasantly through the tall windows that lined the corridors, and the young queen was careful to step as she clasped a small cup between her pale, chilled fingers, brimming with rich Venetian coffee.

It was a wonderful feeling to be alone, free from the confines of her private quarters. And, it was a rare occasion, to be sure. Most mornings the corridors of the French Court were abuzz with servants, nobles, and guards – but, today, this was not the case. Today it was quiet. Today it was peaceful. Today there was hope. And today, _unlike_ yesterday, Mary was determined to be strong and unconcerned with matters concerning Olivia and Francis.

Even though, if she were being _truly_ honest with herself, Mary was obviously concerned. _Very_ concerned. Concerned for her future. Concerned for Scotland. And concerned that - _if_ Francis still agreed to their marriage- Mary would lead the same life as Queen Catherine; tied to a king who was free to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted, stringing mistresses and concubines behind him wherever he went…

But, she could not dwell on such things any further. She _wouldn't_. She would distract herself -if she had to- but she _would_ be strong for Scotland, and for her people.

Mary paused in her leisure travels to take a sip of her coffee, while inching her way slowly towards one of the wide, bright windows. She stared, for a span, out onto the empty courtyard beyond, watching as the fall breeze whispered through the leaves and carried off into the distant harbor. Her mind reeled in and out with images of the past; for it had been there -just beyond the circular pond- that Mary had first seen Francis as an adult. He had greeted her, just after she had exited her carriage, presenting himself kindly, with blue, shimmering eyes that were so soft and so familiar; just like she had remembered from her youth. He had been so full of compassion, tenderness, and fun-

The sudden sound of a familiar voice, bidding a door guard farewell, grabbed at Mary's attention, jerking her back into the present.

Blinking back her confusion, Mary glanced down the hallway to her left, catch sight of Kenna…

… as she exited the king's chambers.

 _What in God's name…_ With a furrowed brow, Mary approached her wandering friend with peaked curiosity. It wasn't until she noticed the flush of Kenna's skin, and the disheveled manner of her dusty hair, that harsh realization began to take form within the young queen's mind.

"Kenna… what were you doing in the king's chambers?" Asked Mary, loudly. This caused her lady-in-waiting and long-time companion to stop dead in her tracks, glancing up from her momentary trance.

Kenna flushed and clasped her hands tightly together, biting firmly down upon her lower lip. The skin above her chin began to pale as she clenched at it, nervously, biting down harder and harder the closer that Mary approached. Kenna then glanced back towards the king's door -of which she had just emerged- and pointed at the solid wood, almost with an accusatory tone. "Uh – _oh_! I was – I mean _we_ were… it's a delicate matter, _really_ …"

The mid-morning sunshine glanced beautifully off of a large, ornate necklace that wrapped smoothly around Kenna's neck as she stammered on and on; blatantly lying through her straight, white teeth. The sparkling diamonds danced wildly, bouncing up and down as the Scottish girl's breath began to draw in and out more frantically.

Mary swallowed, eyeing the jewelry with interest before folding her arms across her chest in a display of pure disappointment. Her brow quirked as she inquired, thickly, cutting across Kenna's jabbering words like a sharp knife, "is that Queen Catherine's necklace?"

Kenna's lips parted as she touched the spot of the necklace that laid elegantly across her collarbone. She turned haltingly towards Mary and frowned deeply in response.

Mary narrowed her eyes, feeling a chill creep up her spine _. Of course_. "Are you having an affair with the king?"

There was a pause. Then, Kenna's eyes shone brightly, full of confidence and passion. "It's not an affair; it's more."

Mary considered this bit of confession, marveling slightly at Kenna's tenacity.

For her part, the young queen was not sure how to feel. On the one hand, she was pleased to see Kenna so hopeful and happy; on the other hand, Mary had a fiery and persistent bout of suspicion that _refused_ to be ignored. It was widely known that King Henry had been with Diane and Catherine for many, _many_ years. It was even _more_ widely known that countless young ladies had come and gone within that time period… only to be used and tossed aside, like common trash, once they had outstayed their welcome and exercised their _usefulness_ within their roles.

After a span of consideration, a sudden heaviness took hold of Mary's heart and she shook her head slowly back and forth. This felt dangerous; not to mention _damaging_ to Kenna's reputation and future. At length, the young queen's voice barked out, harsh and stern, "and what of his wife?"

A dark shadow crossed Kenna's face. "Their marriage is nothing more than a political alliance – she doesn't _care_!"

"So says the man who's trying to bed you!" Mary retorted, tersely. Her eyes glanced momentarily past Kenna and onto the guard at the king's chamber door, who watched them with rising interest as their conversation grew livelier.

Kenna shook her head, eyes glinting with a strange furor. "Since when do you care about the queen?"

Mary willed her face into a sense of calm indifference as her mind began to unravel. She snapped her eyes back onto Kenna, taking a long, steady breath, as a sick feeling of dread began to crawl its way up into the pit of her stomach. She _didn't_ care about Catherine. She cared about the gravity of Kenna's situation! And -if Mary were to be completely honest with herself- she cared about what this potentially affirmed for her _own_ future.

A sudden, uncontrollable fury coiled within the Queen of Scots as she imagined a life with Olivia at her side; stationed permanently in-between herself and Francis…

Shaking her head in an attempt to rid her mind of the image, Mary took a step forward and grabbed a hold of Kenna's hands, hoping that her sincerely good intentions would somehow pour out through her touch. She squeezed tightly at her fingers before insisting, "I _don't_ care about the queen! I care about you!"

There was a stretch of silence and then a deep sigh. Kenna spoke, slowly and carefully, and each of her words tore away at a piece of Mary's heart as they tumbled with ominous purpose from her friend's thin lips, "kings have mistresses, Mary. It's normal."

A hard lump formed immediately within Mary's throat.

"I see… so, you're a _mistress_ now." Even as she said it, the young queen could not contain the distaste that clearly dripped from her tone.

"Soon to be his _official_ mistress." Said Kenna, raising her chin with pride, "once he ends his relationship with Diane."

 _Once he ends his relationship with Diane?_ Mary contained the urge to roll her eyes. Had Kenna gone truly and utterly mad? The king _loved_ Diane! He had chosen Diane, time and again, over any other woman; and it was evident by the way that he treated her – even placing her above Queen Catherine at any given chance. Now, if it were a choice between Kenna and Catherine, the young Scottish girl may have stood a small chance, but…

"Kenna, be reasonable-"

Suddenly, Kenna withdrew her hands from Mary's hold, snapping her arms back down at her sides while huffing in exasperation. Her fingers coiled into frustrated fists as she exclaimed, harshly, "and I _don't_ answer to you anymore! I answer to the king, now."

Then, in a move that seemed to steal all of the air from the hallway, Kenna pushed past the Queen of Scots, leaving Mary with nothing but the sound of her retreating footfalls as they echoed with abrupt _clicks_ down the corridor.

Mary could all but hear her heart thumping into the tile floor at her feet as the walls began to close in around her.

* * *

 **B** ash found Mary just beyond the stables, strolling alone down the long dirt passageway lined with tall oak trees that swayed lightly with the crisp autumn winds. The sounds of the leaves, rustling mellifluously against each other, brought forth a sense of natural serenity to the empty walkway; reminding Bash of his love for the deep, isolated woods. He was anxious to depart in the morning, and was eager to take advantage of the opportunity to delve back into the depths of the forest.

And, a voice reminded,he was quite eager to distance himself from his _complicated_ feelings.

Pagan rituals aside, Bash was becoming increasingly more aware of his uncontrollable emotions toward the Queen of Scots; and was mindful of how each time he was around her, his thoughts and behaviors became more confusing and far more frightening. If anything, he needed this time away so that he might escape the emotions Mary invoked within him; and, God willing, he may find the strength to quell his rising affections.

But, these were affairs that Bash would contentedly push to the back of his mind; at least, for today.

He paused at a reasonable distance from the young queen, running the back of his hand against his horse's soft nose as he led it, and another saddled steed, down the passageway behind him. Both horses shook their heads back and forth, jingling the bits within their mouths loudly against their teeth. Despite the ruckus, Mary _still_ failed to notice him; which, in truth, was perfectly fine with Bash.

For he could admire her, in complacent silence, for a moment longer…

The Scottish Queen was wearing a black and red hooded cloak, designed specifically to protect its wearer from the harsh autumn weather and the bitter whipping winds. Her hair was loose and flowing, as it usually was, and one of her smaller golden crowns sat stilly atop her wind-driven locks. Her knee-high boots slipped through the opening of her cloak as she sauntered casually about; and Bash smiled -briefly- at the sight of her thick, pink stockings as they peeked out just below her knees.

 _That'll have to do,_ Bash thought to himself as he examined her. Of course, he had seen ladies ride horses in far _less_ appropriate attire…

A bitter gust of wind blew across Bash's face and flitted through his hair, causing a flurry of bumps to spread across his neck and down into his chest. He released a shocked breath, and Mary's eyes snapped onto him with a flash of alarm.

The instantaneous smile that spread across the young queen's plump lips tugged swiftly at Bash's heartstrings. It was good to see the smile returned to her face; for he had feared that, after Olivia's arrival, it may be difficult to elicit such a reaction from the young queen again.

"Hello, Bash," she began, turning to face him. Her eyes glanced curiously at the two brown and white horses that flanked him at his sides, and her long, full lashes blinked several times with confusion. "Are you going out for a ride?"

"Hello, Mary," Bash responded tersely, urging the horses forward. Once he was within arm's reach of her, he extended his hand and dropped the reins belonging to the shorter brown horse swiftly into the palm of Mary's hand. The young queen caught the reins, as an automatic reaction, and Bash continued, "yes, _we_ are."

"Oh, Bash, I can't…" she responded quickly, shooting him a rueful smile.

"Can't, or won't?" Inquired Bash, with a smile of his own.

Mary's jaw dropped partially open as she eyed him, looking incredulous.; her sparkling, warm gaze brimming with visible uncertainty.

Bash paled. Of course, he silently considered, Mary had _no_ desire to join him on a horse ride. Why would she? She was a _queen_ …

Feeling slightly foolish, Bash offered her a warm, understanding smile, and opened his mouth to apologize…

Then, a sudden burst of laughter -traveling out from the castle's distant courtyards- drew both of their attentions.

Bash exhaled -audibly- at the sight of Francis and Olivia, strolling together through the manicured lawns. They looked perfectly at peace, walking alongside each other with their arms intertwined like an unholy knot. It was a scene that Bash had gotten used to, months prior, when Olivia had lived at French Court – but, he hadn't expected to _ever_ witness such affections again. _Especially_ now.

"On second thought, perhaps I can." Mary said quickly, tossing the reins up and over the top of the horse's head.

Bash swallowed and offered her his hand in silence, sensing that she needed his companionship more than his words. The young queen placed her hand delicately within his palm, for balance, and steadied her foot within the low-hanging stirrup. With practiced ease, she swung her right leg over the horse's back and settled herself within the saddle, twisting the edge of the leather reins in-between her pale fingers while examining her hold on them critically.

"I haven't ridden in years." Said Mary breathlessly, squaring her shoulders. Her round, doe-like eyes flicked down onto Bash with a sudden spark of mirth – catching the king's bastard slightly off-guard.

"That's alright, if you fall off and injure yourself… I'll carry you back to the castle." Bash chuckled, patting her horse lightly on the side of its neck. He took a lengthy step back, giving Mary room to move against the saddle and stretch her legs within the thin stirrups. Her horse flicked its tail lazily back and forth, producing a loud cracking sound against the wind, and gnawed against the bit in boredom while patiently awaiting her command.

If Bash hadn't known any better, he would have sworn that Mary belonged within the saddle. She looked very relaxed -more-so than many _other_ riders he had witnessed- and she seemed inexplicably comfortable while sitting atop the horse's back.

After a span of watching her - _rather_ _pensively_ \- Bash cleared his throat and asked, "do you know how to-"

Suddenly, in an act that completely derailed the king's bastard, Mary kicked her heels into the horse's belly - _laughing_ \- and shouted back at him over her fleeing shoulder, "do you know how to keep up?"

Bash's jaw gaped, mid-sentence, as he watched the young queen expertly rein her galloping horse down the cobbled passageway; causing a flurry of dust and pebbles to scatter in her wake.

 _That_ -of all things- he had _not_ anticipated.

Bash began to chuckle, despite himself, and turned towards his horse, swinging up into the saddle with nimble proficiency. Without a moment's hesitation, he then kicked his heels into his horse's belly, leaned forward, and bolted after Mary; leaving nothing behind but the sound of his own rolling laughter.

* * *

 **T** hey crested the rise of a flat, green hill just as the wind began to truly howl, ripping back the hood of Mary's cloak as their horses trudged onward into the chilling breeze. The Queen of Scots' hair flew all around her like a dark river, and the crisp winds painted her cheeks with an alluring, natural blush. She wasn't certain of how long they had been riding, or, truly, of where their final destination would be; all that Mary knew was that she felt wild and free, far beyond the French Castle's walls and further away from her troubles than she had ever been before.

They raced across the lush, grassy meadows for a time, flying past an old abandoned church and eventually reining their horses out towards the bluff of the hill. Their horses snorted and pawed the earth beneath them as Bash and Mary urged them to a stop, pausing to enjoy the vast stretch of scenery painted across the horizon before them. It seemed almost surreal, Mary considered, as she stared out into the inaccessible spaces where the violent waves of the ocean seemed to meet with the tranquil ebb of the sky.

The young queen breathed in the smells of the strong autumn breeze, beaming as it tangled and wrapped around the dark locks of her hair with a gentle, lingering touch. A mixture of salty ocean and earthy grass wafted pleasantly within the air's cooling scent; and Mary felt completely and utterly at peace.

"I can almost forget my troubles here." She said with a heavy sigh as her lips stretched into a warm smile. She ruefully recollected some distant memory, the ghost of it bright within her eyes. Without filter, Mary began to gush about her recollection with apparent adoration, "this place reminds me of the meadows outside of the convent... I would always find wild lily flowers throughout the fields; freshly blooming and so, _so_ lovely. I haven't been able to find any, since I arrived in French Court..."

Mary could feel more than see Bash glance her way, as she trailed off.

"I have seen them, out in the country. They bloom along the rivers." He said slowly, with thoughtful poise. "I will bring you some when I return."

Mary's eyes flashed onto Bash, and her horse pawed at the ground aggressively beneath her – sensing the sudden shift in its rider's disposition. She couldn't contain the rush of disappointment that washed throughout her as she eyed the king's bastard with interest. At length, she wet her lips and inquired slowly, "when… you return?"

Bash leaned back within his saddle, folding his wrists loosely atop his lap while balancing the reins effortlessly between his gloved fingers. His expression clouded with an utterly _unreadable_ aspect. "Yes. I will be gone, only for a few days."

"I did not know." Said Mary, frowning slightly.

"It… was rather sudden." Bash sighed, and it was a melancholy kind of sound against the whispering of the winds; and Mary did not miss the apparent avoidance within his shifting demeanor.

Curiosity peaked, and the young queen rounded her shoulders while adjusting within the saddle – attempting to appear feasibly unaffected by Bash's subtleties. "Hunting trip?"

"Something like that." Bash said, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck as he averted his eyes out onto the ocean.

Mary stared into the side of Bash's face, skeptically. His dark hair brushed back and forth across his brow in an alluring kind of way, and his jaw tensed as he reflected upon something that seemed to momentarily take hold of his weary mind.

As if feeling her pressing stare, the king's bastard flicked his cool eyes up and onto Mary's face while grinning with apparent amusement. His smile, soft and reassuring, drew out her own smile. "You needn't worry, Mary."

Perhaps he was right.

Still, she would not be so _easily_ swayed.

"Why is it that everyone keeps secrets from me?" Mary blurted, narrowing her eyes with rising frustration – though, admittedly, she struggled to force out even a _phony_ tone of anger. "Francis, Kenna… _you_."

Bash seemed to consider this for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head with an amused smile. He twisted within the saddle, moving to fully face her, and tilted his head to the side. With a heavy respire, he eventually caved, "there is a rumor of religious sacrifices sweeping throughout the kingdom. People are being drained of their blood in what we believe to be pagan rituals. I am going out to further investigate these attacks, and hopefully capture the vagrants who are responsible."

Mary blinked. "Pagan rituals!?"

Bash twisted his lips, containing the rising laughter within his throat. "I told you; you needn't worry."

The Queen of Scots sighed deeply, considering. He was right, of course. She had no reason to be concerned – beyond the fact that Bash's wellbeing wasn't _necessarily_ her burden to carry. Still, she reasoned, her concern for him -as a _friend-_ would be a difficult feeling to curb...

Mary's horse snorted loudly beneath her, jarring the young queen back into reality.

"When do you leave?" She asked finally, wincing at the blatant uneasiness that coated her tone.

Bash leaned slightly forward and caught her eye, smiling as if he understood her concerns and wished to placate them. His leather jacket squeaked at his arms as he suddenly reined his horse closer towards Mary's, moving so that their bent knees were almost knocking against one another. He was _so_ close -almost as if they were seated together atop a bench- and Mary could feel the heat of Bash's body rolling off of him in waves; despite the frozen winds that encircled them as if they were trapped within a flurried channel.

How was it, she silently mused, that Bash was so warm _all of the time_?

"Francis has made arrangements for me to leave by morning's light." Bash's voice broke through Mary's ponderings, sharply drawing her attention.

Clearing her throat, Mary tried for enthusiasm. "Then you will attend the costume banquet tonight, I presume?"

"Michaelmas?" Bash questioned, eyeing her quizzically. "I hadn't considered it."

"You should!" Said Mary – _rather_ promptly. She bit her lip and inclined her head, continuing, "it will be a nice way to see you off."

Selfishly, Mary knew that this was not the only reason that she desired Bash's presence at the costume banquet. She knew that Olivia would _undoubtedly_ attend the party; and that the Queen of Scots would require _many_ friends to anchor her down in such occurrences.

Also, a voice melodically chimed from the far reaches of Mary's mind, there is _another_ reason…

"If you wish it." Bash said, coolly.

Yet, something about his tone, and the look within his eyes, made heat thunder throughout Mary's veins with a suddenness that nearly robbed her of breath and balance. Never, in her sixteen years of life, had anyone _ever_ looked at Mary in such a way that Bash did; as though she was _more_ than she was... and all at once, Lola's words came rushing back with a fury…

"… _but I also_ _see_ _him – and the way that he looks at you..."_

Just as Mary began to feel as if she would fall from the saddle of her horse, Bash tore his eyes away and furrowed his brow; breaking whatever spell had taken a momentary hold between them.

"What - _ah_ \- what is it that Kenna has lied to you about?" He asked, hoarsely. And he, too, seemed flustered, as he shifted once again within the saddle.

Mary pressed her lips into a hard line before drawing a harsh, cleansing breath. She clasped her hands tightly around the reins and muttered, quickly, "the king -your _father_ \- has… been bedding her."

Bash had begun to lean forward to run his hand along his horse's neck, but paused mid-motion and twisted his face into a puzzled expression as Mary's words struck a chord. "Yes – I had heard rumor of that."

"You knew!?" Mary gasped, despite herself.

Bash paled and winced, before defending himself. "The servants talk. And she isn't the first young, beautiful lady to fall prey to his desires!"

Mary was silent, for a beat. Her heart dropped as the reality settled in; for, just as she had suspected, Kenna would be following a _long_ history of mistresses and playthings at King Henry's disposal.

"I may have been too harsh with her." Blurted Mary, not quite able to contain the rising guilt within her voice.

"Then you should make it right." Responded Bash, softly. "But that isn't all that bothers you about this situation, is it?"

Mary winced – too quickly for her to contain or hide. _How_ Bash knew these things about the inner workings of her mind, without her admittance, she would never understand...

A smile, soft and sad, graced her face, before she muttered, "the apple never falls far from the tree."

Bash looked at her again, eyes earnest, brimming with some emotion that she could not place. "I know that you do not believe me when I say this; but, Francis is nothing like our father."

It was not lost on Mary how Bash referred to Francis with _such_ adoration. She understood that their brotherly bond was strong -surely, a force to be reckoned with- but she couldn't credulously believe in every reassurance that Bash offered in his brother's stead. After all, people were _oftentimes_ blinded by their ardent love for another; and it was quite difficult to see their wrongdoings.

"I believe that you _want_ to believe that, Bash. As do I."

They sat for a time, atop their horses, locked within a comfortable silence. The waves below them crashed wildly into the rocky cliff edge, clapping loudly against the surface as water and earth violently collided. The sun began to trail slowly down into the water, reminding them that their time away would soon come to an end; and, despite her earlier peace, Mary could feel the realities of politics and French Court beginning to creep back into her mind, stealing away her tranquility and harmony.

"I best get you back," said Bash, after a long silent span, gesturing towards the top of Mary's head, "you can't show up to a party looking like _that_."

Mary ducked her head with a laugh, reaching her hands up into her hair self-consciously. She could feel the wild tangles and knots beginning to take form within her locks and she flushed, despite herself; which, in turn, elicited a chuckle from Bash.

The king's bastard reined his horse to the side, distancing himself from Mary, before turning back towards her with a soft smile. His eyes shone with an emotion that caused the Queen of Scots' heart to tremble as he breathed, "do not worry. You are always beautiful, _Your Grace_."

Mary giggled with true amusement; though she was suddenly _very_ aware of the sound of her heartbeat, drumming wildly within her ears as she urged her horse forward to follow after him.

* * *

 **T** he Michaelmas banquet was -and, _always_ would be- a strange party, indeed.

It was a celebration dedicated to Saint Michael for slaying Lucifer, and it was a day in which party-goers dressed in costumes and masks; falsifying the reality that no one within French Court was better than anyone else. Unfortunately, no wardrobes or elaborate disguises could _truly_ change the stature or rank of any single individual – and Bash was _not_ the kind of person to indulge in such silly traditions.

Yet, here he was. Not in costume, of course, but still very much _here_.

As the orchestra began to play several different -and rather _monotonous_ \- waltz variations, Bash glanced towards the large table at the edge of the ballroom, peering with interest towards the seated royal family and their _chosen_ special guests. The chairs along either side of the wide, oak table were sprinkled with several different 'worthy' visitors; some local landowners, a few titled ladies, and an assortment of English diplomats. King Henry was at the head, as to be expected, shouldered alongside Bash's own mother _and_ Queen Catherine.

As usual, all was lively within the great hall; but at the head of the table it was nothing but tense silence and awkward exchanges.

Bash found, as he watched his mother with interest, that he rather admired her stubbornness; for despite being _used_ to Diane de Poitier's presence, Catherine never made it an easy _or_ enjoyable occasion whenever the king's mistress was present. This never seemed to phase Bash's mother; as was apparent -even _now_ \- as she sat with rounded, proud shoulders at his father's side – and Bash couldn't help but wonder if Kenna could handle such altercations on a regular basis.

In truth, Bash doubted that the young Scottish girl would truly shoulder her way into his father's heart. Sure, she was beautiful. And certainly, she was younger and far more _sprightly_ than Bash's mother. But, Diane had a _way_ with Henry that no woman could ever match, and Bash wasn't sure how to identify it; lust, friendship, perhaps even _love_. Regardless, it was a bond that would not be easily broken.

On occasion -certainly not often- Bash wondered what it would be like if his mother had been royalty, or had come from a family with a hefty dowry. It was widely known throughout the kingdom that Diane - _and_ Bash- were Henry's favorites; but, what if they were _also_ worthy of royal titles? Of course, Bash would have been expected to stay within the safety of the castle – and he would have missed out on all of the grand opportunities he had experienced in his wild freedom. But, he would be a prince. He would be respected and envied. He would have the power to make changes. He would have wealth, security, and a promising future.

And, he would be engaged Mary...

"Oh, look – there's Bash!"

Bash blinked, tearing his eyes away from his parents at the sound of – who was it? Kenna?

 _Yes._

Bash softened at the sight of Mary and her ladies-in-waiting, approaching him with wide, pleasant smiles. Kenna was in the lead; proving that Mary had, somehow, rekindled their friendship from its earlier ruin – or, at least, the two girls had come to some kind of an _agreement_ to be cordial with one another.

"Kenna, Lola, Aylee, Greer…" said Bash with a charming smirk, eyes shining as he looked at them in turn, "you all look wonderful."

And they did – truly. Greer was wearing a peach-colored gown that fell low across her shoulders, with an elegant golden mask held tightly across the bridge of her nose. Lola was wearing a flowing, white dress with large feathered wings strapped across her back, and an archangel hat that sat atop her wild, brown tendrils. Kenna was wearing a purple and green gown, with intricate beads and ribbons braided into the long strands of her hair, in what Bash could only _assume_ was her personal interpretation of a wood sprite. Aylee was wearing a costume that began as a checkered dress-suit with a puffy golden collar, and tapered out into a wide, white gown at her waist. And Mary…

"I _love_ your costume, Bash." Said Mary suddenly, in mockery.

Bash snapped his eyes onto Mary, briefly allowing his gaze to travel up and down the young queen's outfit, and he quirked a brow. "And _what_ are you?"

Mary fanned her arms out around her and bowed her head forward, twisting from side to side so that Bash could look upon her in full. She was wearing a form-fitting golden gown, with a gold and green hairpiece that secured half of her intricate ringlets into place. A fake bow was strapped tightly across her chest, and her own golden mask was clasped loosely between her hands alongside a single, decorative arrow.

After a span of silence, and Bash's apparent lack of deduction, Mary blurted, "I'm Artemis. Though, I suppose I may appear to be more of a… a huntress."

"I have never met a huntress that looked like _this_ ," Bash murmured quickly, blinking, "and if I did, it would surely be my ruin."

Mary's head shot back up as her cheeks noticeably flushed. Aylee and Kenna giggled slightly, and Bash did not miss Greer's elbows jabbing quickly against each of their chuckling sides in an effort to silence them. The king's bastard shot them each a flirtatious smile while chuckling, amused.

A voice, not belonging to any of them, sounded off from somewhere behind Bash.

"Quite the party, isn't it?"

Bash turned to see Francis, fast approaching with Olivia at his side.

Before any further commentary could be made from either party, Mary quickly stammered, "excuse us."

Francis' opened his mouth to say something, but the Queen of Scots had promptly latched onto the arms of two of her ladies-in-waiting, and was ushering them away with haste. Bash watched after the five ladies thoughtfully as they departed, internally groaning. He then shot Francis a fake smile, taking in his little brother's obvious outfit with a heavy sigh. "Saint Michael?"

Francis returned the smile and nodded, resting his hands atop the hilt of the sword at his hip. His black costume cape hung freely across his shoulders, and a large red cross painted the fake chainmail at his chest, giving him the appearance of an ancient knight.

"Bash, it is good to see you again." Olivia cooed, curtsying. Bash couldn't help but notice the obvious display of her breasts as they bobbed playfully at the top of her tight, maroon dress; threatening to pop out at any given moment.

"Olivia," said Bash in acknowledgement, also bowing. When he straightened, he couldn't contain the sarcastic drip within his voice as he inquired, "you're… the goddess of seduction, I presume?"

Olivia's face washed over with confusion, and Francis shot Bash an immediate, sharp look full of clear and furious warnings.

"I see that you are sticking to your traditions of wearing… yourself." Francis snapped, frowning.

Bash barked out a laugh that held little humor. "Noble traditions are not for me, Little Brother."

Francis sighed, shuffling his feet with apparent irritation. "Right, you are _only_ the son of a king."

"Are you enjoying your stay at the castle, Olivia?" Inquired Bash of Olivia, twisting towards the golden-haired lady in a move that dismissed any further commentary from Francis.

"It quite suits me." Said Olivia, flushing. Her blood-red lips curved up into a coy smile as she glanced from the corner of her eyes, locking her intimate stare onto the side Francis's face.

 _No doubt,_ Bash silently mused. Of course, French Court _suited_ Olivia – she was a lady of wealth and status. She was also a lady of _ambition._ And, though she certainly cared for Francis, Bash couldn't help but anticipate destruction in Lady D'Amencourt's wake.

"Enjoy it," Bash smiled, flicking his eyes pointedly towards Francis while murmuring, "it is easy to underestimate the _wonderful_ opportunities that we have, until they are gone."

The orchestra began to play a much livelier tune, which carried high into the rafters above the party; and Bash took this opportunity to leave Francis and Olivia alone with their mixed expressions – Francis looking distraught and Olivia looking _rather_ baffled. The king's bastard could feel his brother's piercing eyes, boring into the back of his head as Bash distanced himself from the Dauphin at the far end of the room; though, he couldn't be bothered with such trivial matters any longer.

 _Let him glare_ , Bash mused to himself as he lifted a goblet of wine free from a passing servant's silver tray. The king's bastard was long past the point of treating his little brother with subtlety; and he certainly would not pretend to approve of Francis' manner of conducting himself, of late.

Bash sipped at his wine for a time; long enough for him to reach the bottom of his current goblet and request a fresh, full chalice. Once he was feeling decidedly _lighter_ , the king's bastard caught sight of Mary across the ballroom floor; drowning herself in her own glass of wine as she glowered with apparent distaste in Francis' and Olivia's direction. Bash chuckled as Lola suddenly reached for the Queen of Scotland's glass, gently lifting the goblet from her friend's fingers with concern clouding her blue eyes.

A cheerful melody began trickling out from the ensemble at the corner of the room. Mary, wobbling slightly, brightened with a flash of excitement while grabbing for Lola's wrist; causing her friend to gasp with credible bewilderment. The young queen then proceeded to drag her lady-in-waiting out onto the dance floor, spinning around in a wild circle while clasping tightly onto her friend's outstretched hands. Lola laughed, shaking her head at Mary's expense, and called out for Greer, Aylee, and Kenna to join them. Before long, there was a sea of Scottish girls twirling around the dance floor, much like they had on their first night at French Court; and they all proceeded to spin and twirl and dance for the entirety of the lively song.

This time, unlike their first dance, some of the girls seemed a _bit_ more relaxed; which, no doubt, could be accredited to the sweet, intoxicating results of the evening's red wine beverage.

Once the dancing ended, and the music had shifted into a slower melody, Mary sauntered over to the edge of the dance floor where Bash was standing; closely followed by her four friends, who all drew sharp breaths in attempts to regain their stolen stamina.

Once she had reached him, Mary smiled with exhilaration and inquired, a little breathless herself, "do you not dance, Bash?"

Aware of the _many_ surrounding eyes and ears of the nobles and other party-goers, Bash chuckled and shook his head slowly back and forth. "No, Your Grace."

"Mary!" She corrected him stubbornly, fixing her face into a phony pout. Bash swallowed, glancing towards Lola, whose soft features appeared to be rapidly returning to the familiar mien of strict, unfaltering concern.

" _Mary_ ," Bash began, drawing a steady breath as he flicked his gaze back onto the Queen of Scotland's beaming face, "I prefer to _casually_ observe… from the corner."

Mary lifted her chin and folded her arms at her chest, eyeing Bash suspiciously. "You do not dress up for costume banquets and you do not dance – are you _certain_ that you are the 'fun' brother?"

Bash laughed loudly, despite himself. Once he had regained his composure he grinned widely and placed his empty goblet casually atop the table to his left.

 _Has she not had enough fun for one day?_ He mused, tilting his head to the side. He met her intense stare and murmured with apparent dalliance, "I'm not so sure; you tell me which one of us is more _fun_."

"You're losing your rank, I must say – _oh_!"

Mary stopped short as Bash grabbed gently at her wrist, freeing her arms from their folded position at her chest. He then twirled her around, twice, and caught her against his knee; holding her for a moment within the protection of his arms. Mary's eyes were wide with shock, and her lips were parted slightly as she drew in rapid, startled breaths. Her chest lifted and dropped in a rhythm that didn't quite match the tempo of the music; and her reaction caused heat to dance across Bash's body as realization dawned that - _perhaps_ \- the Queen of Scotland might be affected in the same confusing way that he was.

Bash straightened, pulling Mary upright with him, and released his hands while clearing his throat - loudly. Mary proceeded to then laugh in the most charmingly cheerful way, glancing to her friends in turn. Unlike their queen, however, Greer, Aylee, Lola, and Kenna all stared at her with separate forms of wide-eyed consternation; and it struck Bash - _immediately_ \- that his behavior may have been boldly inappropriate.

Regardless, a dark and persistent voice whispered, Bash would do _anything_ to keep that smile -pure and sweet- upon Mary's face for just a little while longer.

Deliberately ignoring her friends and their pointed glances -or, perhaps, simply disbelieving the implications behind them- Mary flicked her eyes back onto Bash and nodded. "So, you _can_ dance!"

Bash shrugged his shoulders up, briefly, and teased, "beginner's luck."

"Hardly." Said Mary, with a coy smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bash could see his father's glare, boring into the side of his bastard son's face from across the room. A chill crept up Bash's spine and washed across his brow, clearing his mind and countenance in one swift wave.

"I will miss your smile while I am gone." Bash said, placing one hand behind his back and bowing low before her with genteel ease, "enjoy the rest of your night, Mary."

When he straightened, Bash stole a glance towards his father; and was instantly dismayed to not only meet Henry's challenging stare, but also to discover the _pained_ expression that had taken hold of Francis' astonished face.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Aaaaand here we are. Thoughts? :)

I thought I'd give us all a bit of cheese before things get a little… _bumpy_. -cough-

Loving the support that this story is getting though, guys! Keep it up!

Love.


	4. If It Doesn't Kill You

**A/N:** Hello, friends! I'm sorry for the delay of this chapter – I am moving, so there's a lot going on in my life and it's hard to find time to write! Some tidbit-y things about this chapter:

I am taking a ton of creative liberties here in this chapter, specifically with Leith. In this story he is already a (newly) assigned member to the king's guard – not a kitchen boy. Also, if it isn't already apparent, there is **no** Clarissa in this story. (She doesn't really have a place in it.)

Lastly, this chapter moves rapidly, so if it gets confusing in some areas _please_ let me know!

* * *

 **Chapter Four : If It Doesn't Kill You**

 _Street lights on dark nights  
I wonder where you are  
We fight to stay bright  
Illuminate the dark_

 _It's you and I  
Up against the night_

 _I know you're out there somewhere waiting  
I know the stars can hear us praying  
I know you're out there somewhere waiting for our love  
For our love_

 _\- Where You Are,  
The Score_

* * *

 **M** ary sat within the comfort of a large arm chair, dressed in a light cream-colored evening gown, with her legs curled up beneath her as she flipped through the pages of an old, worn-down story-book.

The interior of her private chambers grew dark and eerie as the last light of day slanted down through the high windows, spilling long shadows across the tiled floor. It was quiet and peaceful within her quarters, save for the crackling of the fire within the hearth. Periodically, Stirling would make a sound as he slept alongside Mary's chair, breathing softly and twitching his nose and feet as he chased after imaginary prey within his vivid dreams. Other than that, however, the large room proved to be a peaceful setting on this evening; and it was a perfect place for the Queen of Scots to collect herself.

Occasionally, Mary would glance up from her book and expectantly peer onto the tightly closed doors of her chambers from her perched position at the window. Each time, however, nothing came from this motion; and she found herself swimming within a mixture of disappointment and anticipation. She was patiently -or, _not_ so patiently- awaiting an invited guest; but, as night fell in full, and the shadows crept from the tiles and moved up onto the walls in the form of long, dark fingers, the young queen began to suspect that her anticipated guest would _not_ be arriving.

 _Perhaps it's still not too late,_ she pondered, feeling less hopeful as the night drew on. A pang of defeat took hold of the young queen's heart as she considered that she may have made a mistake in inviting this guest to her quarters. She realized, suddenly, that she may have misjudged her current situation, and taken a foolish leap of faith… which, if Mary were being completely and utterly honest with herself, would not be the first time that she had opened her heart and extended her kindness to the wrong individual.

With a loud sigh, she forced her eyes to focus back down onto the book clutched loosely within her hands; hoping that the stories of her childhood would distract her from her mounting apprehension.

Her brown eyes narrowed as she turned a thin page and read the words 'Prince Charming' etched across the top in heavy-handed ink. She held back an audible snort as the sensation immediately tickled the back of her throat. What a silly, childish notion; to think that there was such a thing as a 'charming' prince, or even a happily ever after. She bit down onto her lip and crinkled her nose as the image of a knight in shining armor flitted across her mind… and suddenly, once the humor had run its course, she felt oddly unsettled as a harsh realization came crashing down around her.

Her time at French Court was changing her.

Or, _perhaps_ , she was simply growing up; and finally realizing that fairy tales had no place in the real world.

Mary ran her fingers absentmindedly down the thin page of the story-book, noticing the manner in which the paper had softened and crinkled with use and age. How many children had read these stories and been filled with unrealistic expectations of romance? Had Queen Catherine read this book to her children? Had Francis read this book? Mary pressed her lips together as she tried to imagine her betrothed reading a book full of short fairy tales; and she found herself doubting it entirely. Certainly, if he _had_ read them, he'd know that his current behavior was _far_ from romantic…

Before her thoughts could form into a large, barreling ordeal that would whisk her down a mental road of anguish, Stirling suddenly lifted his head and quirked his ears forward, drawing Mary's attention. She anxiously followed his gaze onto the entrance of her chambers, and her heart skipped as the large, wooden door creaked loudly inward.

Philip, the door guard to her private chambers -of whom Mary had grown rather fond of over her time in French Court- swiftly entered into the room and bowed forward at the hip. His lips were held in a hard line and his brow was tight and furrowed -like most guards looked, presumably as a form of intimidation- but his familiar green eyes looked to her with a softness that never failed to ease the Queen of Scots nerves.

Mary's fingers tightened around the edges of her book as she nodded to him with a small smile, awaiting his announcement. But, before Philip could announce the mysterious guest, he was followed in by a very distressed and tired-looking Kenna. The Scottish girl was decorated from head-to-toe in sparkling jewels of silver and diamonds -no doubt given to her by King Henry himself- and she wore a very seductive evening gown that glittered with beads and was hemmed with white, fluffy furs.

The Queen of Scotland's brows shot upward, in a failed attempt to mask her surprise. This hadn't been a face she'd expected to see – and she was not the invited guest that Mary had been anticipating.

Be that as it may, Kenna certainly wasn't an _unwelcomed_ guest…

Without so much as an utterance, Mary nodded to Philip once again in a dismissive gesture, and unfolded her legs from beneath her. The young queen then adjusted herself within her seat and twisted to fully face Kenna while closing the book into her lap with a light clap. The touch of the cold tile flooring beneath her bare feet sent an unpleasant shiver up and throughout Mary's spine, and she ran her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to ward off the chill.

The girls were both silent, for a span.

They had not spoken alone in several days. And, ever since the costume banquet, Mary and Kenna had silently agreed to act as if their quarrel outside of the king's chambers had never occurred.

But, it _had_ occurred, and Mary's guilt would _not_ let her rest; and she found herself wondering if the guilt that she was currently feeling was her own, or if it was radiating off of Kenna, who looked to be just as tormented as her queen.

Kenna opened her mouth, but Mary held up her hand in a silencing motion. "Allow me to start; I apologize for being harsh with you, Kenna. I cannot speak for the king's heart – and I do not judge you. I only want what is best for you. And, if you are truly happy; then I am happy."

Kenna's shoulders drooped forward in an act of relief, but her lips trembled slightly as she began to speak. "I wish you would have told me about Olivia. It explains everything! Mary, I didn't mean what I said… I'm sure Francis wouldn't… he can't possibly…"

Kenna trailed off, so grief-stricken that she looked close to tears.

"It is alright," Mary assured, rising from her seat and moving slowly towards her friend, "I should have told you about her. It just… hurt too much to confess, at the time. But it is all well, now. I was merely jumping to conclusions. I have no proof _or_ reason to believe that Olivia and Francis are anything other than old friends."

And she didn't, truly. Certainly, there were rumors of Francis and Olivia pining away for one another; but none of these rumors carried any real weight, and no _actual_ witnesses had reported seeing any intimate exchanges or displays shared between the two. Of course, there _could_ have been an extremely sneaky romance, hidden behind closed doors… but, the walls of French Court were riddled with eager eyes and ears, and Mary doubted that there would be any true chance of a successfully hidden affair.

After all, if the past could be considered in such an instance, Bash had been informed of Kenna's liaison with King Henry _long_ before Mary had any suspicions; and now the Queen of Scots was very aware of how loose-lipped the servants and guards could be, when prodded.

"I understand completely." Kenna nodded, though her voice sounded hollow and full of disbelief.

Mary smiled, choosing to ignore the implications of her lady-in-waiting's tone. She then reached forward and caught Kenna's hand within her own and softened while whispering, "thank you for keeping our quarrel private."

Kenna returned the smile and beamed, squeezing Mary's hand. "Thank _you_ for not telling anyone of… my _arrangement_ with the king."

"Kenna, you are one of my dearest friends. I would never betray your trust," said Mary, as genuinely as she could muster. "You should tell our friends of your relationship. They love you, as I do. They won't judge you."

Unable to contain herself, Kenna suddenly wrapped her arms gingerly around Mary's shoulders in a warm embrace; and Mary could feel herself physically and emotionally softening even further.

"He _is_ ending it with Diane, he's just waiting until the English leave." Said Kenna, at length, with apparent hope and belief dripping thickly from her tone. "He doesn't want to cause any upset within the castle while we have guests."

Mary winced, despite her efforts to remain impartial.

"Of course, that makes perfect sense." Said the young queen, pulling away from Kenna's embrace and forcing a smile.

The door to Mary's private chambers swung inward once again, creaking with loud disruption, and the door guard shifted his way hastily into the center of the room. This time, he was determined to make an announcement before the guest strutted in, and he spoke quickly and loudly. "Your Grace, Lady Olivia D'Amancourt is here to see you."

True to her character, Kenna did not mask her knee-jerk reaction. "That little _snake_! Shall I drag her away by her hair?"

Mary pressed her fingers to her mouth and giggled, shaking her head rapidly back and forth; and the sound of her own laughter felt oddly foreign to her ears. But, why? All at once, the Queen of Scots realized that she hadn't laughed _at all_ since Bash had left on his 'hunt' a few days prior…

Clearing her throat, and ridding the unsettling thought from her mind, Mary stammered on, "no, Kenna, I summoned Olivia. It's quite alright; I'm sick of the animosity at French Court, these days. It is time to show some kindness."

"I can _kindly_ drag her away by her hair…" Kenna mumbled, eliciting a playful swat from Mary.

"Allow her in." Mary nodded to her guard, catching sight of Kenna's eyes as they widened in apparent disbelief.

Olivia entered the room hesitantly, glancing her blue eyes from Mary, to Kenna, and then back onto Mary again. Her golden hair fell beautifully down around her narrow shoulders, her plump lower lip was held tightly between her teeth in fear, and her pale skin flushed with apparent discomfort – giving her a pleasant rose-colored hue. Olivia _was_ gorgeous, there was no denying that fact; and the reality of it twisted about like a vicious serpent at the pit of Mary's stomach. It occurred to her, briefly, how truly _different_ her and Olivia looked; and she wondered if Francis preferred Olivia's light hair, bright eyes, and narrow face to Mary's dark hair, deep eyes, and rounded features.

With a painfully wide smile, the Queen of Scots turned to Kenna and gestured towards the door. "I will see you in the morning, I hope the evening treats you kindly."

Kenna stubbornly folded her arms at her chest and challenged Mary with a fixed stare, seemingly unsatisfied with her dismissal. The Queen of Scotland narrowed her eyes in response and tilted her head to the side, unwilling to yield. Then, after a silent span, Kenna sighed - _loudly_ \- and moved haltingly towards the doorway; eventually disappearing out into the hallway beyond.

Mary watched after her lady-in-waiting with silent amusement; gladdened to know that she once again had Kenna and all of her _adamant fire_ back within her court. Once she was certain that her and Olivia were all that remained within her chambers, Mary flicked her eyes back onto the French girl and offered her a warm and genuine smile.

Olivia flattened her hands against her long brown dress, which hung loosely around her shoulders -not truly fitting her small frame properly- and she darted her eyes nervously back and forth while tensely surveying the room. Finally, she stammered, in a small voice, "you requested an audience?"

"Yes. I heard that most of your things are still missing within the woods. I thought, perhaps, you might want to borrow some of my clothes." Mary offered brightly, walking briskly towards her large bed and pointing at a pile of dresses that she had laid out for the occasion. "I know that you've found a few things to wear within the castle, but… I have so much extra clothing, and I thought you may be more comfortable in some of mine. We are roughly the same size, yes? You see, I've picked out some of my blue dresses, to match your complexion…"

Mary trailed off, realizing that she was stammering on and on in an attempt to calm her rising nerves. She glanced back over her shoulder to survey Olivia, and watched as the French girl's mouth did a series of silent pushups.

Concerned that she may have overstepped, Mary inquired, "have I offended you?"

"N-no – no, your kindness is so… unexpected." Said Olivia. For the first time since entering the Scottish Queen's chambers, the French girl smiled.

Mary softened and nodded with relief.

"I knew that Francis had a past. It's quite alright; men are allowed to have them. Whereas we have our reputations ruined." Mary said with a shrug, turning back towards the dresses and lifting one of the smaller gowns up into her hands, meaning to offer it towards Olivia. "Hardly seems fair."

As if a ghostly wind had brushed through the room and swept away Olivia's previously kind and gentle demeanor, the French girl suddenly darkened and hissed through gritted teeth, "I don't need your pity."

Mary paled and turned to fully face Olivia as her heart leapt up into her throat. "Oh – no, I– "

"Stop! I can see it all over your face. You look at me and you see a girl who threw away her virginity on a man that she could never have." Accused Olivia, furrowing her brow. Her blue eyes narrowed as she arched her chin, staring at Mary down the bridge of her nose. Her tone softened, for a breath, and she continued on with a chilling inflection, "well, you're wrong. I thought I could have him. Because Francis spoke of marrying me."

Mary could feel an itch at the back of her throat, rising in intensity. She inhaled deeply and tried for gentleness, despite her growing irritation. "That's not possible, Olivia."

"Is your wedding assured? Was it always?" Olivia snapped, quirking her brows.

Mary shifted uncomfortably. "Well… we've been engaged since we were children."

Olivia snorted, and Mary blinked back her wide-eyed consternation. "Yes, well, what Francis and I had was _true_. Passion. Love. Intimacy. It was not manufactured out of a perceived political need."

Mary's hands tightened around the dress still held within her hands, and she could feel the thin fabric twisting and craning beneath her grip. Somehow, she managed to maintain her even tone and murmured, "you've been gone quite a long while."

"Not that long." Said Olivia at once. "And now that I am offering myself to Francis as an option… perhaps he'll choose to be with me. Once again."

The young queen could have sworn that, in that moment, she felt the earth shift beneath her bare feet. She stood stilly for a span, silently astounded, as if the burden of speech had abandoned her completely. Her ears grew hot as she looked upon Olivia; who stood casually before her, smirking at the Scottish Queen with a look of raw accomplishment splayed across her pale features.

At last, Mary found her voice. "I'm sorry to inform you that you're _wrong_."

"Oh?" Challenged Olivia, wetting her lips. "Are you two even friends? I haven't seen you speak to him since my arrival."

The young queen completely abandoned any and all of her delicacy, and snapped, "our relationship is none of your business."

"Relationship? The only relationship that I see forming is between you and the king's bastard son." Olivia laughed, and it was a terrible and evil kind of sound that seemed to encircle the entirety of the room. "With all of the horseback riding, dancing, laughing and– "

"Enough!" Mary shouted, and her voice echoed across the thick, stone walls of her private chambers with a vocal power that the young queen had never emitted before. Her heartbeat began to pound within her ears, sending hot, searing blood throughout her veins, and the tingling sensation that followed gave Mary an overwhelming sense of strength. "I will _not_ have you spouting rumors and lies!"

The large wooden door opened, quickly, and Philip entered into Mary's chambers with his hand placed tightly atop the hilt of his sword. Mary glanced to him and softened, realizing that her outburst had been - _rightfully_ \- a cause for alarm. And, in truth, she was gladdened by his sudden intrusion; for it visibly unsettled Olivia, as the French girl followed Mary's gaze onto the door guard and winced.

"I assure you, I am not the one who started the rumors about you and Sebastian; but started, they are." Olivia said softly, taking a few steps backwards while distancing herself from Mary. "I do not need any of your dresses, Your Grace. Francis has promised to take me into town to buy me a full new wardrobe."

At last, Olivia spun about on her heel and saw her way out, pausing briefly to acknowledge Philip with a tight and vicious smile.

The door guard looked to Mary with concern, dropping his hand from the hilt of his sword while taking a gentle step forward. He was a much older man, having served within the king's guard for over fifteen years, and he rarely spoke to anyone within the castle; save for Mary, who reminded him very much of his young, headstrong daughter. His steel armor was always polished and bright, and it was apparent that he took great pride in protecting the royal family.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" Philip asked of her in his gruff, deep tone.

"Yes, Philip," said Mary, in a much smaller voice than she had used before, "that will be all."

Philip hesitated, for a moment. He looked as if he wanted to comfort her, or speak to her, or offer her some form of assistance – but, eventually, he bowed his head forward and exited the room in silence.

Furious, Mary tossed the blue dress into a crumpled heap at the floor. Her eyes filled with hot, angry tears as she stormed back toward the large window and collapsed into the cushions of her chair. Her head fell into the palms of her hands as waves of grief rolled throughout her body, and she gasped through her course of quivering breaths. Her mind reeled over and over again, flooded high with Olivia's harsh words and nasty promises; and she kept revisiting the same bit of the French girl's speech, unable to shake the haunting words…

"… _I am not the one who started the rumors about you and Sebastian; but started, they are."_

The young Scottish queen was at a complete and utter loss, mulling over those words...

She gave real thought to what Olivia had said, and her heart sank as an awful shadow of understanding clouded her tired mind. Of course, a young woman -queen, or not- could _never_ befriend a man without rumors spreading; and her situation with Bash was no different than that of Francis and Olivia.

Except, for Olivia's part, the rumors about the French girl -and former lover of the prince- _were_ actually true; for Olivia _did_ want Francis. And she had just staked her claim on him.

 _What am I going to do..._

In an act that startled her, Stirling placed his muzzle gently atop Mary's lap and nudged the young queen with his cold, wet nose. Mary lifted her head, slowly, and placed her hand atop his face, rubbing her fingers gingerly across the dog's fuzzy brow. Stirling's tail began to wag, thumping loudly against the leg of Mary's cushioned chair, and the young queen smiled softly as she wiped the back of her free hand across her damp and ruddied cheeks.

Once her tears had dried, and her chest felt a great deal lighter, Mary leaned her back against the cushions of the chair and peered out and past the long, red drapes that hung across the tall window. She watched as the stars began to flicker into existence, one at a time, and the full harvest moon slowly shifted its way into view while beautifully illuminating the distant harbor.

Unbidden, an image of Bash came rushing inward, washing away all of Mary's inner turmoils and distresses.

The Queen of Scots wasn't entirely surprised by the abrupt, throbbing ache that surged across her heart as the image of soft, silver eyes and shaggy dark hair flitted throughout her busy mind. Rumors be damned, Mary couldn't deny the fact that she missed Bash's light-hearted presence and roguish smile in moments such as these.

And she wondered -faintly- if the king's bastard was sleeping beneath the twinkling stars this night; and she imagined that he would be out there -somewhere in the wild- staring up at the same harvest moon …

* * *

 **B** ash stared up at the bright harvest moon as it moved across the falling night sky and he sighed, deeply. The Blood Wood was as quiet and eerie as its namesake, and whatever creatures and humans inhabited its darkness all held their collective silence as Bash watched the glittering heavens with a mixture of wonder and relief. He stared up into the vast span of space for a long time, thinking of nothing and everything all at once, while feeling oddly detached and adrift.

It felt nice to be still and to rest at last, for his life had taken on a strange sort of routine over the past several days; starting before the sun rose, and ending long after it had settled beyond the mountains on the horizon. Long days that were spent on horseback, silently crossing the forest in hopes of reaching a little village just North of the Bay River in two days' time. For his part, Bash was silent for the majority of the journey; as this was custom to his traveling. When he traveled alone, there was no one to talk to. When he traveled with guards -as his little brother had insisted he do on this particular journey- the guards were mostly silent themselves.

As the moon began to disappear behind a thick horde of rainclouds, Bash drew his eyes down onto the crackling fire at his feet and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm his chilled fingers. If his travels had taught him anything, over the years, it was how to properly anticipate the ever-changing French weather; and this night, he knew, would prove to be a rather cold one.

Bash faintly wondered, for a moment, of how the weather faired several days' travel away – back at French Court, with his friends and family. He imagined that most of the leaves would be shifting across the courtyard, stolen from the trees within the currents of the whipping winds; and he knew that it would irritate Queen Catherine, for she hated when the autumn leaves managed to clutter her pristine castle floors. He thought of the long, cold nights, and how the castle's fireplaces would be full and crackling at all hours of the day, warming the thick walls and illuminating the tiles with a pleasant glow. He even considered the change in food at French Court, and how sandwiches and cold beverages would be replaced with hot soups and bubbling stews in attempts to battle with the autumn chill.

It was then that the king's bastard realized that -for the first time in forever- he was _rather_ homesick. But, it was not the leaves, or the fires, or the food that Bash _truly_ missed at French Court…

He missed a girl with long, dark hair, sparkling doe-eyes, and a cream-colored complexion. He missed the pleasant giggle that emitted from this girl, whenever Bash was being playful. He missed the charming smile that graced this girl's plump lips whenever she saw Bash entering into the same room as her…

He missed Mary.

 _Gods be damned_ , Bash thought in frustration, brushing his hand across his face with dismay. He had hoped that this journey -and its inevitable distance- would ward off his growing feelings for the young Queen of Scotland. But he was a fool to believe - _even for a moment_ \- that his affections would be possible to fight. If anything, the ever-spanning distance from her was causing Bash to grow even _more_ fond of Mary…

"I know that look. You're thinking of a lady."

Bash's ears twitched as he shifted uncomfortably atop the log that he was seated upon, and he glanced up at the young, blonde guard who stood across the fire. This soldier was new to the king's guard, and may have been even younger than Bash himself... which, in truth, was an odd change. The king's bastard was used to traveling with men _much_ older than himself – all of whom remained mostly silent, and never tried to befriend him on their long and boring journeys together.

After Bash squinted through the smoke at the guard for a span, the soldier shifted his way around the fire and smiled, a little embarrassed. He had a long, pale face and bright blue eyes that pierced Bash in a similar way to Francis' eyes; and the king's bastard son found himself softening at the familiarity.

"Please pardon my intrusion, My Lord." The guard said stiffly, bowing his head slightly forward in apology.

The corners of Bash's lips twitched upward and he furrowed his brow.

"You needn't call me that when we are out here," Bash corrected habitually, reaching out his hand, "call me Bash."

The young guard brightened and caught Bash's hand within his own, clasping it tightly. "Leith."

It felt a bit odd, introducing himself now, after they had spent several nights together; and Bash scolded himself -inwardly- for the rude habits that he had established over the years when it came to dealing with the king's guards. There were many things that he hated in society these days; and uncordial behavior was one of those things. His father -though, kingly and just in his own stubborn right- was a man of little sympathy when it came to lower-class individuals… and it was a trait that Bash vowed he would never allow to manifest within himself.

Bash ran his hand across the base of his neck and glanced back down onto the crackling fire at his feet. "Am I that obvious, Leith?"

"You seem eager to return to the castle." Said Leith, in a voice that was jaunty and knowing.

Bash wet his lips and leaned forward, slightly shocked by the young soldier's answer. "Do I?"

A sudden gust of wind swirled around them, shifting their cloaks and sending a scatter of red cinders up from the fire. Bash unsheathed the long steel sword at his hip and poked at the base of the coals, causing one of the larger logs to topple over, and the flames flicked momentarily higher.

"I have a lady that I am eager to return to, as well." Said Leith, after a span, drawing Bash's attention. "It's a bit of a complicated thing, our situation. I wish to court her but she is… of higher stature."

Bash glanced over his shoulder towards the other two guards behind him, momentarily wondering if this rather _unusual_ conversation was going to have an audience. To his delight, he discovered that the two older men were fast asleep within their separate bags; one of them leaning up against the base of a tree, and the other snoring soundly atop the tall blades of grass.

Satisfied and confident that their discussion would carry on unheard, Bash turned his attention back onto Leith and asked, gruffly, "so, it is a forbidden love?"

"You _could_ say that." Leith chuckled, inclining his head. "She would call it that, I suppose."

Bash's brows shot upward, and he flashed Leith a brief smile of understanding. "I'm told that forbidden love is the best kind of love."

Leith brightened. "Absolutely! And one day, when I've married this lady, I'll convince her of that. Of course, I've not even kissed her…"

The widening of Bash's eyes could not be masked as he asked, "and yet, you know that she is the lady of whom you wish to marry one day? Without even so much as a kiss?"

Leith shuffled his feet beneath him, as if he were weighing Bash's words with critical analysis. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders up into his neck and declared, airily, "when you know, you know."

Bash considered this. He had been with many ladies in his adult life; both physically and emotionally. Some of his relationships had been wonderful and pure, while others had been meaningless and short. Still, he couldn't rightfully declare that he had ever been 'in love' – or, even, had the slightest inkling of what true love must have felt like. Instead, the king's bastard avoided those kinds of feelings rather adamantly, and had accepted his fate; knowing that he would likely spend his entire life married to the forest, rather than husbanding a wife.

Then again, there may have been _one_ exception to his rule…

 _No._ Bash gnawed on the inside of his cheek as a wave of fear consumed him; and he stopped the thought in its tracks.

After a long and drawn-out silence, Leith asked, "and what of you, Bash? Planning to marry _your_ lady?"

Bash ran his tongue along his front row of teeth and winced. He did not have the desire to correct Leith, and he certainly did not have the courage to confess the inner workings of his heart and mind. Instead, he jabbed his sword into the fire once again, and sighed, "I doubt that entirely."

"True love always finds a way." Said Leith, with confidence.

"If it doesn't kill you in the process." Bash mumbled, despite himself.

To the king's bastard's surprise, Leith snorted and nodded. He then shot Bash a toothy grin and respired, "well said, My Lo– I mean, _Bash_."

That night, long after the fire had been put to rest and Bash had crawled into the protection of his warm bedroll, the king's bastard finally allowed himself to consider his feelings and the complications that they would potentially bring forth.

He had meant what he had said to Leith by the fire. Bash's feelings for Mary -were they to sprout into something dangerously strong- would _very_ likely be the death of him.

Yet, a part of Bash invited the thrill of it all; and he acknowledged the fact that Mary had given him something to fight for, and a sense of purpose. No matter what happened between himself and Mary, and whatever _fate_ would eventually decide, Bash would always be grateful to have had the young queen in his life…

 _Even if it kills me._

* * *

 **W** hen she had reached the crowned prince's private chambers, Mary waited patiently outside of the doorway for Francis' guard to announce her. Her hands were clasped gently at her front, and her lips wore a soft and kindly smile – per chance someone were to pass by and observe her. The small crown atop her head shifted slightly as she acknowledged the guard, who returned to her side and gestured for her to proceed in. Once she was allowed entry, and the door was closed tightly behind her, Mary's kindly demeanor vanished with haste.

Rather abruptly, it dawned upon Mary that she had never been _inside_ of Francis' room; and if she had found her own private quarters to be impressive, they were nothing compared to the prince's magnificent chambers. Aside from the busy writing desk that was messied over with papers, scrolls, and books, Francis' room was quite tidy and beautifully decorated. Whether it had been Catherine's doing, or a hired hand, the private quarters felt surprisingly warm and pleasant; decorated with the finest tapestries, pillows, blankets and linens, all colored in deep, royal reds.

After glancing around the room for a precious moment Mary found him, seated at an oak table at the edge of his room, running a white cloth up and down the blade of a small, sharp dagger. She recognized the weapon as one of Francis' creations; recollecting on his love for crafting swords and the like. This was one of Francis' more _endearing_ qualities, to be sure. Still, Mary would not be swayed by his innocence within the moment – and she would have clarity before she left his quarters this day.

With an air of uncertainty, Francis glanced up from his busy task and offered Mary a warm smile. The strings at the collar of his loose-fitting shirt hung lazily across his chest, and his golden hair fell in a charming mess atop his head; all giving him the appearance of a freshly-awoken man. The image was rather disconcerting, for Mary; and it was painful for her to think of how pleasant he looked in the morning glow.

His sparkling blue eyes were examining her rather skeptically, but his voice rang out even and clear. "Mary, it's good to see you."

Unwilling to accept his pleasantries, Mary jumped right to the point. "Where is Philip?"

Earlier, when Mary had first awoken with the warm rays of the morning sunshine spilling in through her chamber's tall windows, she had been physically floored to discover that Philip had been replaced by a new and unfamiliar soldier at her door. This soldier was younger, taller, and much less kind – as the young queen discovered, per their brief initial conversation. When pressed, the guard had admitted that he was uncertain of why he had been moved to her post; but had assured Mary that he would now be guarding her private quarters, indefinitely.

Mary had her suspicions; but she would not dare give them voice. At least, not until she had spoken with her betrothed.

Francis' brows rose up into the peak of his hairline, and he placed the small dagger within his hands gently down onto the workbench at his front. "Sorry, who?"

"My door guard. I was told that he was removed, on your orders." Snapped Mary, narrowing her eyes.

"Ah," Francis mouthed, humming at the back of his throat, "he has been replaced."

Mary's jaw tensed. She wanted to shout, and to cry out, and to belt her accusations… but she remained calm, and eyed the prince curtly. After all, she _was_ a queen, and it was a queen's duty to remain ever courteous. "Why is that?"

"I am surprised that you care," Francis began, rising from his chair while rubbing his hands together, "it isn't as if he did a very good job; what with you almost being violated by that Scottish boy-"

"Philip had been off duty that night!" Defended Mary. Francis blinked, but she did not give him chance for an answer. "This was Olivia's doing, was it not?"

Francis' eyes widened, for a beat, and it was within that moment that Mary had gotten her answer – more plainly than any true confession could have been. What the prince said, however, was, "why would you assume that?"

Resisting the urge to scoff, Mary glowered, "am I wrong?"

Francis' eyes fell as he rounded the old oak desk and came to stand before Mary in full. He leaned gently back against the edge of the table, while clasping his hands neatly at his front and folding his right foot over the left. After a span, he glanced to Mary, with eyes full of apprehension. "She told me that your guard had threatened her life."

Mary found herself at a loss for words. She would hardly consider Philip's actions to be threatening. And, _even if_ he had been threatening towards Olivia, he would have been doing his duties and _protecting_ his future queen!

The young queen's anger swam just below the surface, for a moment, before she washed it away with an audible sigh. "When is Olivia leaving?"

"You've not spoken to me in three days, and this is how you want to start?" Inquired Francis, pushing away from his desk and staring at her critically. In stubborn response, Mary folded her arms at her chest and blinked. With a sigh, Francis continued, "we've made no arrangements to move her, yet."

Mary could not mask her immediate displeasure. "Her presence makes me uncomfortable."

Francis made a sound and his mien shifted into an expression that Mary could not place.

They had not spoken of Olivia since her arrival. In fact, they had hardly spoken at all of _anything_ since her arrival, really. Instead, Mary had collected all of her information about Olivia and Francis from Bash, her ladies-in-waiting, and her own personal observations. And, until her conversation with Olivia, Mary's intel had been mostly innocent…

Eventually, Francis found his voice. "Why is that?"

"I think you know." Said Mary, brows rising.

"Mary," Francis muttered, and there was a sort of painful pleading within his voice. Mary noted the tension on his face, and understood the war that must have been raging within his mind. She found her hope rekindled, slightly, by the kindness of his tone, "when you came here, you expected me to have waited for you?"

The words, as he spoke them, sounded ridiculous even to Mary. Had she expected him to wait for her? Perhaps, once. Now, however, she understood that he'd had a past – and she understood that he may have expected the alliance between France and Scotland to fall through. She even understood that -being a man- he was allowed to have relations before he was wed.

"I expected you to have an open heart."

Francis expelled a rush of air through his nose and reared his head, haughtily. "Is that why you displayed such affections for Bash the other night? To get a rise out of me – to pay me back?"

Now it was Mary's turn to gape with confusion. All at once, she was catapulted back into the night of the Michaelmas dance, when she had had _far_ too much to drink and had acted decidedly foolish. Heat rose from her chest and traveled up through her neck, forming into a light flush upon her pale cheeks. She recalled the dancing, and the loud giggling, and the roar of the music, and the way that Bash had twirled her around before holding her within the warm grasp of his arms…

 _Oh._ Mary gasped as a feeling of guilt closed in around her.

Unable to rectify her own actions, the Queen of Scots rushed to Bash's defense. "Bash has shown me _nothing_ but kindness since my arrival."

"I've noticed." Mumbled Francis, his expression firm and resolute.

Mary did not enjoy the judgmental press of Francis' eyes upon her face, and she began to unravel beneath his critical stare.

"This has nothing to do with Bash! I came to French Court, prepared for this union. I was prepared to be with you! I dreamed of our marriage -of _you_ \- my entire life, Francis!" She said, almost incredulously. "Only to come here and discover that you hadn't thought of me at all!"

"That's not true!" Defended Francis, throwing his arms around him for emphasis. "I _did_ think of you! Quite often, actually! But uncertain days turned into uncertain years, and for a while it seemed as if you may never return! I - I _am_ sorry that I sought companionship elsewhere, but can you blame me?"

"You wouldn't even give me a chance – you wouldn't even give _us_ a chance!" Mary snapped, fury suddenly roaring in to replace the sting of betrayal.

"Mary, I loved Olivia, and she was taken from me! That pain – that agony – was excruciating!" Said Francis, and his eyes and tone were tinged with steel. "I would not chance that feeling of heartbreak again with you – or anyone! Alliances change and engagements break, and I won't be risking my emotions _or_ my country on that chance!"

Mary hesitated for a moment before saying, in a small voice, "how fortunate for you, then, that Olivia has returned."

Francis pressed his thumb and middle finger deep into the sockets of his eyes, rubbing at them while respiring loudly. "I promise you, Mary, if it is right for France then I will marry you one day. Our countries _will_ be allies, and France will protect Scotland from England. Everything that you have come here to achieve will be accomplished."

There was another long pause, full to the brim with unanswered questions. When would they know when it was right for France to officially align with Scotland? Who was to decide such grandiose verdicts? Was it all truly up to King Henry? Why was the French king so hesitant to wed them? Was he concerned for the fate of England? Would he rush them both to the alter, as soon as the Queen of England was dead?

Feeling faintly overwhelmed, Mary unfolded her arms and began to twiddle and pull at the tips of her fingers. Out of all of her pressing questions, there were only a few that the Queen of Scots _truly_ wanted answered in this moment. And now seemed as good a time as any to ask, within the privacy of Francis' quarters. "Our countries may be aligned, but what of you and I? What will we be, Francis?"

Francis was unmoved as he retorted, softly, "the crowned rulers of France and Scotland, of course."

"Is that all?" Mary breathed, uncertain if the French prince had been trying for humor or if he had lost all sense of reason. When he failed to expand, Mary wondered if Francis would dare answer her next question with anything but the truth. "Have you slept with Olivia, since her arrival back at French Court?"

Francis averted his eyes and his hands pumped into momentary fists. "No."

The hidden meaning within his tone stole Mary's voice away for an instant. Her throat constricted as she said, "but, you've done something…"

The French prince bit down onto his lower lip, as if recollecting upon a moment. His expression washed over with a sense of regret as he whispered, softly, "I stopped it before it went too far, out of respect for you."

"Before it went too far…" Mary stammered, unable to contain her vigor. Before Francis could interject, she expanded, "if it is right for France, and you and I are wed… will you take Olivia as your mistress?"

Francis inclined his head, clearly puzzled. His mouth opened. His mouth shut. Finally, he spoke, with blatant uncertainty. "No. Well – I-I don't know… that's… that's certainly an option. Mary, I… I _loved_ her… I _still_ love her… and this is all _terribly_ complicated…"

Mary tensed, and her blood went cold.

Of course, Francis _had_ read the fairy tales within Mary's storybook. He knew what love was, he knew of romance, and he knew how to be a proper gentleman. He was capable of being faithful. He was capable of being kind. He was capable of being a good husband. But, Francis had found his counterpart -and his hearts truest desires- within Olivia. Not Mary.

"I…" she began haltingly, pausing for a beat so that she may rein in her waning composure, "I suppose that it is an option, then. For you."

For his part, Francis looked pained. He took a step forward, reaching his hand out in a gesture that attempted to comfort her. "I wish you would understand…"

Mary shuffled backwards, distancing herself from his reach.

"Francis, I understand. I really do." And in some small way, she did. Truly. "But in your attempts to shield yourself from a broken heart, you have broken mine instead."

Francis' mouth opened to speak, but the young queen was quick to turn for the doorway in a motion that entirely robbed him of speech.

With one hand clasped tightly onto the handle of the door, Mary shot the French prince one last tentative glance before departing in a chilled wind of silence.

* * *

 **A** fter several hours of traveling throughout the small village, and asking various different townspeople about the murders and kidnappings that had occurred within the town, Bash and his accompanying guards eventually found themselves shuffling into a small, old house that smelled heavily of ginger and mothballs. The elder woman who owned the seasoned home was frail, small, and wobbly; but her stately spirit was unmistakably strong. She welcomed them into her cottage with little hesitation, knowing only that they were visiting the small town on official 'royal business from the king'. But it did not take long, after entering, for the king's bastard to realize that this woman was the town seer – and, whether he believed in that kind of thing or not, he recognized that this woman would have vast knowledge about the people coming and going throughout the town.

After all, if someone could be counted on for knowing all things past, present, _and_ future… would it not be a seer?

As he entered into the home, following closely behind the elder woman, Bash ducked his head to avoid a low-hanging ornament, made out of what _appeared_ to be animal bones, strung together with wires and string to form an odd -and rather disturbing looking- decoration. Of course, the king's bastard had spent enough of his time traveling within small villages, and conversating with unusual wanderers, to understand that this 'decoration' was _much_ more than just that. And, upon further examination of her home, this was not the _only_ strange item within the cottage; there were jars full of small animals floating in strange-colored liquids, red and orange herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling for drying, and a collection of orb-shaped crystals and rocks scattered along the tables and windowsills.

 _Nostradamus may have a true competitor_ , Bash thought with a roguish smile.

The old woman led the four men over toward her tiny, crackling fireplace, where a large pot boiled and popped with a fresh, homemade stew.

She paused just before the hearth and turned towards them with a small, warm smile stretched across her face. The wrinkles at her cheeks all sprung to life as her lips drew open, revealing a mouth full of broken and missing teeth. The blue veins below her leathery skin spread out into rivers along her arms as she silently reached for a ladle within the bubbling stew, stirring the lumpy mixture in contented silence.

"Thank you for taking a moment to speak with us," began Bash, watching the old woman intently, "we were told that you may know of the radical pagans within these lands, and of the extreme sacrificial rituals that they have been performing as of late. We are aiming to put an end to these attacks on innocent lives. Any information that you can give me would… be… helpful..."

Bash's voice trailed as he spouted the pre-practiced speech -of which he had recited _countless_ times this day- as the old woman's eyes flashed to him, ablaze with a sudden wash of fear. The smile that had once graced her face was nothing more than a ghost as she dropped the ladle loudly back into the pot, splashing some stew out onto the wooden floor at her feet.

Softening, the king's bastard rounded his shoulders and offered the woman a kindly smile. "It's alright, this won't lead back to you. I'm only looking for some answers."

The woman's matted, sand colored hair fell into her face as her muddy, sunken eyes darted between Bash and his three guards. She spoke, after a healthy span of bated silence, and her voice was hoarse with lack of use. "They attack at night, taking their victims deep into the Blood Wood. They hang them by their ankles, and slit their throats for a sacrifice."

One of the king's guards shifted uncomfortably, causing the old floor boards to creak in objection beneath him.

"Yes, I've discovered several bodies in the wood, displayed in such manner." Said Bash, steeling himself before continuing on. "What is the purpose of these sacrifices?"

The old woman lifted her head, sending her pointed jaw upward, while frowning in thought. She seemed to be contemplating whether or not she dared risk speaking her next words, but after a moment her voice rang through, strained and ominous. "For The Darkness."

A collective wave of unease shifted throughout the room, passing over each man's face in turn.

"The Darkness?" Echoed Bash, voice low. "What is that?"

The old woman's hallowed eyes narrowed as she scowled. "It is not a what, but a _who_."

The king's bastard considered this bit of information, glancing towards Leith. The young soldier blinked back at Bash in surprise.

"The Darkness is a person?" Inquired Bash, brows lifting.

The old woman's eyes glanced nervously towards the front door of her home, then onto her windows, then settling back onto the king's bastard with concern. Bash could tell that she did not relish the thought of informing him of too much; and her nervous behavior began to breathe truth into _why_ she appeared to be so fearful.

"Some of these radicals reside within this town." Said Bash. It was not a question.

The old woman blinked, but said nothing. In an act of desperation, Bash took a step forward and reached out to clasp her cold hands firmly within his own, offering her a form of comfort.

The very moment that his fingers had wrapped around the old woman's chilled hands, however, she immediately released a loud gasp as her eyes widened with a cloud of fear. Her head rolled backwards as she stared with a hard, empty glare up towards the ceiling; silently viewing something that no one else within the room could see.

Bash swallowed thickly. He had seen this kind of behavior displayed before by the renowned seer Nostradamus, and king's bastard dared not speak -or, even, _breathe_ \- until the old seer was finished with her vision. In his lifetime, Bash had witnessed his fair share of 'strange' anomalies. Certainly, he had always practiced the Catholic faith; but he was not the kind of person to dispute any other kinds of religions or -dare he say it- 'powers'.

Bash believed that there were individuals -like Nostradamus- who had special gifts and abilities, and it was in this way -and, truly, _only this way_ \- that Bash and Queen Catherine were _somewhat_ alike. For, truly, who was to say that seers, prophets, or magic did not exist? And, on that note, even - _perhaps_ \- The Darkness…

After what seemed like hours -and, in reality, was a span of mere seconds- the woman's sunken eyes finally came back into focus. She dropped her head forward and fixated back onto Bash with a newly-ignited passion, sending chills up and down the king's bastard's spine.

Bash squeezed his hand around hers, gently and assuring, and searched her face with his soft, gray eyes. "Tell me where I can find these people. I _will_ protect you."

The woman leaned into his touch, gripping Bash with an intensity that he'd not seen before. She looked as if she wanted to share something with him -something secret and terrible- but what she said, was, "at the edge of the town… there is a small, old house with a broken window. You will find what you are looking for within."

Bash bowed his head forward and released her hand. He then spun around on his heel and pointed towards the two older soldiers, commanding, "stay with her, we will return shortly."

Without a word Bash then nodded to Leith, gesturing for the young guard to follow him as he made for the doorway in tight, urgent strides. But, as Bash's hand reached for the handle of the door, two sets of cold fingers wrapped desperately around his arm, pulling him backwards.

Bash glanced with confusion down onto the short, elderly woman, who gripped him with a strength he did not expect her to possess.

He opened his mouth to question her, but she was quick to silence him with her voice. "When the heretics mark someone for sacrifice that is of nobility, they take them to a special tree. It is an old oak tree in a meadow full of poppies."

Bash furrowed his brow and inclined his head. "Where is this meadow?"

The woman paled, shaking her head slowly back and forth.

"Alright," Bash continued, reluctantly, "but, these heretics have not marked anyone of nobility… not recently, at least. So, why are you telling me this?"

The old woman looked at him gravely, her cold fingers still clinging to the arm sleeve of his jacket.

 _The vision._

Bash's stomach twisted as her words rang around within his ears in a prophetic manner; somehow reaching him without even using her voice. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek, contemplating his next move; but before the king's bastard could question her any further, the old woman slowly released his arm from her tight grip and backed away with a haunting expression plastered across her wrinkly, shadowed face.

Understanding her crucial mannerisms -and, even, the hidden meaning behind her stare- Bash leaned his shoulder heavily against the wood of the door while simultaneously twisting the handle; exiting the home in a hurry.

He and Leith made their way out into the town's empty streets, leaving the small home far behind them. It did not take long for the king's bastard and his guard to notice the sudden lack of people as the storm began to roll in overhead, and large, dark clouds came barreling in.

Bash wrapped his coat tightly around his body in reaction to the howling wind, noting the way that it whipped all around him like an ominous warning. His dark hair was shifting wildly atop his head, brushing lightly against his brow as he trudged onward down the empty streets, moving towards the house with the broken window at the edge of town.

It was easy to find, this house, for it had a large, boarded up window and unkempt plants that wrapped up and around the foundation of the home like sickly, green veins. It appeared to be abandoned, which was certainly the appeal to any inhabitant that wished to be detached from the rest of the world. However, the closer he drew towards the entrance of the old home, the more certain Bash became that there was -in fact- someone hiding on the inside of its crumbling walls.

Once they had arrived, Bash stole a glance back at Leith, and the two shared a look full of mounting anticipation.

With a deep inhale, Bash lifted his fist -skin paling by the touch of the chilled air- and wrapped his knuckles loudly against the splintered wood of the door. He waited for a span, clenching and unclenching his jaw, and was not surprised to discover that no one had answered. He tried again, even louder, and he and Leith waited once again in ever-spanning silence. Finally, once he was fed up with this game of waiting, Bash took a gated step backwards and lifted his knee, thrusting the soul of his boot into the door with considerable force.

The door flew inward, banging loudly against the wall. Bash placed the palm of his hand softly atop the hilt of his sword and took a guarded step in, glancing about him with wide eyes. The wind howled inward, rushing through the door behind them, kicking up piles of dust and straw that had collected within the corners of the small home. There wasn't much within the house; save for some toppled-over tables and benches, and a bed that lay bare with no quilts or pillows. At the far edge of the room, however, there was a chair, facing away from them, with a young boy seated atop it.

Bash's ears twitched at the sound of Leith's sword as the soldier began to unsheathe the steel weapon from his hip. The king's bastard was quick to hold up his hand, without an utterance, gesturing for the young guard to stand down. Leith looked to him with questioning eyes, but obeyed nonetheless.

"You've taken what does not belong to you, adding to a debt that you already owe."

Bash's eyes flickered onto the back of the boy's head, and he motioned for Leith to stay put as the king's bastard slowly approached the chair. The boy was staring down onto his hands, calmly folded within his lap, and the tattered rags that hung across his shoulders swayed lightly with the motions of the intruding winds.

He looked sickly and frail, as if he hadn't spent much time in the sunlight. His eyes, however, were what unsettled Bash the most; dark, heavy, and full of hidden emotions.

"I found the body of a Scottish boy hanging in the wood, and I cut it down." Bash began, briefly glancing to Leith who was listening intently. "Then I discovered two travelers being drained for a sacrifice, and I brought them to the castle."

"So, you are aware that you have interrupted our rituals..." the young man flicked his eyes up onto Bash's face and narrowed them, quirking his head to the side, "and that you have been allowed to go on your way, both times."

Bash grimaced a little and spoke without hesitation. "You're one of the heretics. You're a monster, you know?"

The boy shot Bash a fleeting smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Those people weren't yours to save, Sebastian."

"How do you know my name?" Demanded Bash, unsheathing his sword and pointing the sharp end of his weapon abruptly towards the boy's thin, pale neck.

"We all do, now." The boy whispered, without even so much as a flinch. "You owe a debt, and you will pay. Choose someone to sacrifice."

Bash swallowed a hard lump as it formed within the center of his throat.

"And if I refuse?"

The boy's eyes shone suddenly, impassioned. "We thought you might say that. No matter; we have chosen for you."

"What!?"

Before Bash had any time to react, the heretic boy withdrew a hidden blade from the confines of his tattered shirt. The weapon's cold steel glinted and shone against the fading light of the sun, and the king's bastard reached for it in a desperate, ill-timed attempt to remove it from the boy's hands…

But the boy managed to plunge the weapon deep into the center of his own chest, immediately toppling forward as blood spilled from his lips like a dark, tainted river.

The boy's final shuttering breath sent an icy chill down Bash's spine as he stared at the heretic's crumbling body. A sudden dread -so vicious and insistent- cut throughout the king's bastard like the rigid autumn winds. He could feel Leith's eyes upon his face -wide with a brimming mixture of both shock and confusion- but he could not will himself to meet the soldier's stare.

As he watched the blood collect against the wooden floor in a wide growing pool, everything began to fall into place within Bash's mind, like a puzzle forming in full. The old woman's vision, the heretic boy's warning, the string of murders drawing closer and closer to French Court…

In a voice that trembled and faded, Bash murmured, "we need to return to French Court. Now."

* * *

 **T** he newest storm was creeping ever further towards French Court as Mary reached the line of trees that stood high against the edge of the Blood Wood.

She had slipped out of the castle, unnoticed and unheard, just as the sun had begun to set; somewhere far behind the blanket of the dark, sinister rainclouds. It had been raining, on and off, for several days now; and the young queen had found an appropriate break in the storm to venture out onto the grounds, distancing herself from the castle and its imprisoning walls. She took great care not to be seen by anyone who would question her, and had managed to convince the guards at the main gate that she would be meeting up with Kenna, and therefor would not be _alone_.

Of course, Kenna would be spending the remainder of the evening within King Henry's chambers, unbeknownst to most of the castle guards… and very much to Mary's advantage.

Now, as the Queen of Scots moved along the freshly-wet grass surrounding the castle walls, she was very much _alone_.

So much so that it felt relieving; almost as if she could breathe freely for a time.

As she reached the tree-line, where the castle grounds faded into the dark Blood Wood, she peered out into the forest, almost expectantly, while squinting her eyes as she strained to see past the dark shadows of the woods. A sound of leaves shuffling deep within the protection of trees caused her ears to twitch; and the young queen found herself wondering if it was the cause of the gusting winds or if it was a creature that had stirred the loose foliage loudly about.

For a moment, she even allowed herself to imagine that it was the king's bastard son, shuffling along the dried petals and needles, finally returning home from his five-day absence.

An absence that, to Mary, had felt like a lifetime.

The wind tugged at her coat, insistent as a ghost, as she stared deeply into the dark span of shadows. Her heart ached as she pictured Bash; somewhere out there, dangerously searching for pagan murderers and deranged heretics.

What a terrifying job he had, she considered.

And yet, at the same time, what an _exciting_ life.

Feeling bold, Mary gathered the dark fabrics of her dress up into her hands and took a guarded step forward, lifting her foot up and over a fallen tree branch as she entered cautiously into the forest. Her heart was beating loudly within her chest, ringing throughout her ears and activating the haste of her pulse. The thrill of her reckless bravery was suddenly so addicting and inviting, like the first sip of wine on a hot summer day, and she began to wonder what her life would be like if she were to simply run into the depths of the Blood Wood and never return to French Court…

"Mary!"

A familiar voice rang out, jolting Mary out of her reverie and instantly catapulting her into a sense of foolishness.

Lola burst through the tree line, rushing to Mary's side while staring at her in disbelief. She had to yell, to be heard above the howling wind, but her tone managed to reach the Queen of Scot's ears loud and clear. "What are you doing!? The sun has almost completely set! You shouldn't be-"

"I needed... freedom." Said Mary, tone hard, snapping herself away from her pleasant imaginings.

Lola's bushy brows shot upward, creasing her freckled forehead.

Of course, the young queen had fully anticipated this kind of reaction from her friend.

When Mary had been a young child, being shaped and raised into the queen that she was on this day, she had been told of certain discussions that could not be had with non-royal friends. Her conversation with Francis, she considered, may have been one of them; and, thus, had put her into a position in which she had not disclosed her newly-acquired information with any of her ladies-in-waiting.

And she _certainly_ hadn't spoken of her confrontation with Olivia to anyone, at that.

Lola braced herself against the trunk of a tree, still staring at Mary with wide-eyed confusion. Her lips tightened into a hard line as her patience waned, but her insistently soft voice stayed true to her kindly nature. "It's getting dark, Mary, let's get you back to the castle…"

Mary turned away from Lola, glancing back into the tempting darkness. How lovely it would be, to be free of Olivia, and Francis, and French Court, and the toxic politics that circled around the kingdom like a thick cloud of fog…

Feeling brash, and decidedly done with keeping all of her secrets to herself, Mary twisted back around to face Lola and blurted out, "he isn't going to love me."

"Francis?" Inquired Lola, suddenly glancing about her in confusion. Mary nodded, solemnly, and her lady-in-waiting continued on with a soft and reassuring smile. "Oh, Mary, you _can't_ know that!"

Lola was nothing, if not irritatingly positive.

Still, Mary knew better.

The young queen sighed, shooting her friend a look full of ire. "I know that he still loves Olivia."

Lola was silent for a beat as her soft smile wavered, if only a little. "But, the alliance…"

"Yes, the alliance will go on. And I will lead the same tragic life as Catherine." Mary retorted, sharply and full of irritation. "I'm going to be wed to a king, who has a mistress."

"You're leaping to conclusions-"

Lightning struck, cutting through Lola's words like a steel sword to cheese.

The immediate clap of thunder that followed the strike echoed out across the grass and trees, vibrating throughout Mary's chest as she glanced up towards the sky. Not many moments later, a torrential wave of rain began to pour down in heavy sheets from the gloomy heavens above, collecting in large droplets within Mary's dark hair and along the pale skin of her cheeks and brow.

The young queen chanced a glance at Lola, who looked more than a little perturbed, and scrunched her nose.

 _I suppose I don't have a choice, now._

Without an utterance, Mary began to shift towards Lola, understanding that -for now- she had no choice but to return to the castle, and all of the suffocating inhabitants that resided within.

Of course, Mary would have never _truly_ ran away from her discomforts at French Court. She loved her country and her people far too much to simply give up on the alliance; even if it meant sacrificing true love, and all of her _personal_ joys. Mary was a ruler, first and foremost, and therefor lacked the luxury of putting her own needs before those of her people. And, in knowing that, she would simply have to endure whatever fate Olivia brought along with her.

As she moved across the grass, following slowly behind Lola, Mary glanced back at the dark forest one last time, wistfully aware that she was leaving her hearts desires somewhere within the wood…

And her entire body froze over with terror.

She watched with a mixture of confusion and fear as a shadow detached itself from the other shadows of the forest, forming into a tall man with a long black cloak. Mary's throat caught as the man approached her swiftly, reaching for her, and she had little time to react before she was swept up into a tangle of arms, ropes, and cloaks. Before she could scream, a gloved hand clasped over the Queen of Scots mouth, yanking her head backwards into the man's broad chest as she squirmed and pulled against him.

Despite his efforts to take Mary quietly, however, Lola was quick to notice her queen's capture – and responded immediately.

"MARY!" Lola's shrieking cry suddenly rang out, cutting through the sounds of the pouring rain.

Mary managed to rip her lips open and bit down onto the leather fabric of the glove while simultaneously jabbing her elbow back into the ribcage of her captor. The man promptly released her, taking a staggering step backwards while grunting out in pain, and Mary began to sprint towards Lola.

But fortune, it would seem, was not entirely on their side.

In a flash -as quick and deadly as the storm's striking lightning- another man emerged from the forest line, cutting the distance faster than the young queen could travel and grabbing Lola by the crook of her arm. He gripped a knife, which glinted with deadly purpose as another flash of lightning split the sky, and was pressing it with murderous intentions against Lola's pale throat.

"No! Stop!" Mary cried out, stopping dead in her tracks.

The man's mouth stretched into a wicked smile as he spat, "this one needn't die, too! Keep your mouth shut and come with us, quietly!"

Stunned silence fell in the echo of the man's declaration. Mary's chest caved as her and Lola shared an anxious glance; and, in that moment, the Queen of Scots knew that she would do _anything_ to protect her dear friend... quite similarly to how she would do _anything_ to protect her beloved country.

"Let her go, and I will come with you!" Mary eventually commanded, glancing back over her shoulder to the man from whom she had initially escaped; watching as he slowly re-approached her from behind while drawing a short sword from his hip.

The odds were _very_ much against her, if she desired for Lola to remain unharmed.

Raising her hands in a surrendering gesture, Mary allowed the taller man to grab her by the curve of her arm and jerk her backwards, while jabbing the sharp-end of his sword against the small of her back.

The shorter man who held onto Lola gently dropped Mary's lady-in-waiting into the ground, pressing down around her shoulders so that her knees caved into the damp grass and mud. Lola sharply drew her breath and coughed as the man released the knife from her throat, and she raised her head to glance up to the young queen with fear.

"Mary!" She managed to gasp out.

"Stay where you are!" The shorter man yelled to Lola while stepping around her, gesturing to her with the sharp knife; as if, somehow, she had forgotten he possessed it.

For a moment, Lola looked as if she may lunge for the man – and her fingers began to clench and unclench at her sides in a nervous tick that Mary had grown to recognize as a protective mannerism. The young queen was quick to shake her head back and forth while shooting her lady-in-waiting a stern, unfaltering glare, as if to say, _please don't!_

So, instead, Lola watched in horror as the men began to drag Mary away; fading wordlessly into the darkness of the Blood Wood and disappearing for what may have been -to Mary's fear- _forever_.

* * *

 **B** ash had traveled the last stretch of his journey alone. He had insisted that his soldiers carry on without him when he had dismounted his horse to search the river-side for a collection of wild lily flowers; stating that there was no chance that he would return to the castle without them. He had vowed to bring Queen Mary these flowers; and, pagan rituals be damned, he couldn't return empty handed.

Truly, he couldn't reason with the idea of making Leith and the other guards wait for him as he searched, and had urged them to journey ahead without him.

"I know the way home." He had insisted, coaxing them off with his pressing stare. Leith had been the most hesitant about abandoning the king's bastard; but, in the end, he too had journeyed on without him.

Now, as the castle lanterns finally flickered into view in the far-off distance, Bash urged his horse forward with a handful of snow-white flowers secured within the folds of his leather jacket. Heavy rain fell down in sheets around the king's bastard's head as the storm eventually caught up with him; soaking his belongings, the outside of his clothes, and his horse in full.

Despite the horrid weather -and the terrible knowledge about the pagans that weighed heavily within the back of his mind- Bash couldn't contain the smile that stretched across his lips as his horse started down the long, cobblestone entranceway lined with familiar tall trees. He was _so_ close now. So close to home, so close to warmth, so close to her…

Suddenly the discordant sounds of a woman's voice broke through the tree-line, catching Bash's attention as she desperately yelled out from the fields to his right.

"Help! Please!"

Pulling his horse to a stop, Bash twisted his head and squinted through the storm; straining his ears through the sounds of the rain as it repeatedly pelted against the hood of his thick leather jacket. After a span of searching he caught sight of the woman as she was running through the wet field; her green dress covered in mud from the knee down, her dark hair soaked completely through as it clung to the sides of her face, and her skin abnormally pale due to the chill of the combined rain and wind.

As she moved closer into view, and a flash of lightning lit up the field at her rear, Bash recognized the woman's face in a burst.

 _Lady Lola._

"Somebody help!" Lola screamed, stumbling across the slippery grass in a frenzied pursuit of the castle.

Bash dismounted his horse, dropping onto the wet earth with a splash, and rushed to Lola with outstretched arms. Lightning struck, again, as he caught the startled girl roughly into the safety of his arms; and she responded by flailing and screaming and beating against his chest in wild protest.

"Lola! It's me – it's Bash!" Bash yelled, pulling back the hood of his cloak. The heavy rain crashed against his cheeks and soaked into his hair, causing drops of water to stream down either sides of his face in cold lines as he held the startled girl into place.

After a few more moments of struggling, Lola calmed as realization eventually dawned and she grabbed hold of Bash's shoulders while crying out, "Bash! Bash you must do something! They've taken her – they've taken Mary!"

Bash's heart leapt up into his throat and his stomach twisted with panic.

"Who!? Who has taken Mary!? Lola, _where is she_!?" He demanded, shaking with poorly concealed fear and rage.

Thunder rumbled as Lola gestured back towards the tree line of the Blood Wood, shooting water off of the tips of her pale fingers as she moved. Bash's eyes followed the motion of her hand, glancing out onto the bushel of swaying pines in the shadowed distance.

"I don't know who they are! They grabbed her – they grabbed her by the edge of the forest!" Lola cried out while shaking her head back and forth.

Bash released his hold on Lola and groped the air behind him, catching the reins that hung freely from his horse's neck. Without missing a beat, the king's bastard twisted around and swung up into the wet saddle, pausing only a moment to shout, "Lola, go to the castle and inform Francis that I have gone after her! Run!"

Lola nodded, blinking through the rain as she stared up at him with growing dismay, before twisting about on her heel and sprinting towards the castle.

Not willing to risk any further hesitation, Bash wheeled his horse in the opposite direction and dug the heels of his boots into the animal's soaked sides. He leaned forward within the saddle as the steed barreled towards the outskirts of the wind-whipping forest, squinting through the rain and wind as it challenged him with vicious force.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Go, Bash, go!

If you are enjoying it, please let me know! I **love** your feedback, seriously, it is so encouraging! I can't even express to all of you how much fun I am having writing this fic!

Love.


	5. They Have Chosen Me

**A/N:**

Aaaand we're back!

I know. I _know_. It has been a while. I'm sorry. I'M. SORRY. I truly appreciate all of your patience with me! Your reviews have been SO very encouraging, and I am ALWAYS thinking of this story because of ALL of your incredible support – so, thank you, thank you, _thank you_.

* * *

 **Chapter Five : They've Chosen Me**

 _On my way now, don't give up on me  
And no one knows what, what tomorrow brings  
These weary eyes will never rest  
Until they look in yours again  
I'm on my way now  
I still believe _

' _Cause even underneath the waves  
I'll be holding on to you  
And even if you slip away  
I'll be there to fall into the dark  
To chase your heart  
No distance could ever tear us apart _

_There's nothing that I wouldn't do  
I'll find my way back to you _

_-Eric Arjes,  
Find My Way Back  
_

* * *

 **C** atherine reclined onto the cushions of her throne, allowing her long fingers to spill over the edges of the armrests as she clutched tightly onto the chair's intricate wooden carvings.

She watched with apprehensive eyes as her son, Francis, paced the floor before her - back and forth, repeatedly, with a grief-stricken expression plastered across his face. It had been a very long night, to be sure, and the entirety of French Court had been abuzz with fear and speculation ever since Lady Lola's rather _dramatic_ outburst earlier in the evening. It was quite a scene, truly; the young lady-in-waiting -who had impressively _poor_ taste in men, as Catherine recalled- had stormed through the main hallway, drenched in rain, sobbing about the violent capture of the Queen of Scotland by a pair of 'hooded vigilantes'. Of course, Francis had been quick to assume that the aforementioned group of radical pagans were to blame for Mary's capture; and a guardsman, by the name of Leith, was quick to confirm the Dauphin's suspicions as fact.

Unfortunately, as was typical of French Court, rumors and gossip had flooded throughout the castle like a barreling carriage, ablaze with unease and enmity. The inhabitants of the castle, including their antsy English guests, were gradually preparing themselves for some form of strife or action; and tales of unwarranted uprisings were sprouting like poisonous weeds. These reactions were to be expected, no doubt, and a kidnapped monarch was most _certainly_ not something to be taken lightly…

However, the way that French Court was handling this situation -with all of the terrified whispers and trembling lips- one would be pardoned for assuming something epically tragic had occurred; like, say, an outbreak of the plague.

Despite the rising chaos, King Henry had assured everyone -almost casually- that there was absolutely _nothing_ to fear. He guaranteed that his soldiers would bring Queen Mary safely back to the castle, and he confirmed that whomever was to blame would be put to death immediately. Though, this hadn't quite satisfied Francis; which, in turn, did _not_ satisfy Catherine. She loathed seeing her sweet son so distraught.

Especially over such a _silly_ thing as -say- Queen Mary's health and wellbeing…

Catherine's mouth twitched, and the green-and-gold samite of her gown shimmered against the light of the surrounding candles as she shifted with poorly-masked disquiet. Of late, the French Queen had not been a huge admirer of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots; but she had never desired for the girl's untimely _death_.

 _Stupid, stupid, girl! What were you doing out on the grounds unattended!? If harm has come to you, and it causes my son any form of grief, I will find a way to rise you from the dead and kill you again myself…_

The sudden harmonic clinging of chainmail drew Catherine's attention. She straightened within her seat, snapping her eyes onto the throne room's entrance. Francis paused in his pacing to turn and face the six guards who sauntered into the center of the tense room; and Henry, who was seated at Catherine's right, stood immediately.

The head guard, who lead the small company of men, bowed down onto one knee; causing a pool of rain water to collect at his feet as the droplets rolled in wet lines down his blue cloak and shining armor. His mannerisms were nothing less than curt and conventional as he knelt before his agitated king and queen; but it was the look within his eyes that ultimately betrayed him.

Catherine drew in a lengthy breath as she readied herself for what came next.

"We lost the trail, Your Majesties. Queen Mary's captors have managed to weather the storm with confounding ease. It is impossible to -"

" _Where is my son_?" Henry interjected loudly while crossing the floor in long, furious strides.

A wave of rain pelted against the tall windows, followed closely by a flash of light that glanced through the decorative pane. The successive clap of thunder caused Catherine to jolt upright in her seat; and she was uncertain of whether it was the tension within the throne room or the terrors of the storm that rattled her straight to the core.

The head guard swallowed and ducked his head inward -much like a cowardice dog- as the French King briskly approached the line of shrinking guardsmen. The guard glanced, momentarily, onto Francis –as if he were confused by Henry's inquiry- then, as realization dawned, he muttered, "Lord Sebastian has not yet returned, My King."

Catherine's lips tightened into a hard line. She knew, in that moment, that the evening had been ultimately _ruined_ by Sebastian's unrelenting integrity; for nothing perturbed Henry _quite_ like the fear he held for the wellbeing of his most favored son.

It was a fact widely accepted throughout French Court -and, likely, most of the kingdom- that Henry adored his bastard son above all of the other royal heirs. Ironically, Sebastian was the only child of whom Henry could give nothing of lasting value to… which was a thought that oftentimes kept Catherine's spirits high and hopeful. Her children -all of whom she shared with the French King- were _all_ protected beneath the crown, and through their marriage. Sebastian, on the other hand, was protected _only_ by Henry. And, one day, Henry would no longer be _around_ to protect his bastard son. Or his mistress. Or -truly- anyone that Catherine loathed.

Until that day, however, she would have to endure the agitating adoration that Henry held for Sebastian; and, thus, the uproar that undoubtedly ensued…

" _Precisely_. And he will not return, until he has found her!" Henry bellowed, his eyes flicking angrily across each guardsman's ghastly face in turn. "And now Bash is searching for the Queen of Scotland alone – because of _your_ incompetence!"

Hesitantly, the head guard straightened. "My Lord, the storm-"

The back of Henry's hand crossed the guards mouth so loudly that an audible _snap_ echoed throughout the throne room. The five armor-clad men who stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind him all stared with horrified alarm.

Catherine blinked back her surprise while folding her hands neatly within her lap and raising her chin. She took the trill of a heartbeat to glance onto Francis, who happened to peer back at her in return. Her lips parted slightly as she wrestled with the idea of rising from her throne and interjecting herself into the situation…

… but Henry's roaring voice dissuaded her of any further action. "Do not return to this castle until you have either found the Queen of Scotland, or have died in search of her!"

Unsurprisingly, the guards left in haste, spilling out of the throne room in an echo of clattering boots.

Quite surprisingly, it was in _this_ moment that Francis strode angrily forward, barreling past his father in a flare of green robes, brandishing a most-determined look upon his pale face. "I'm going after Mary and Bash _myself_."

Catherine groped for words as Francis' announcement sank in. _He can't be serious!_

"Stop!" Henry bellowed, causing Francis to halt in his tracks. The Dauphin turned, slowly; his blue eyes narrow and cold as he viewed his father. "You will do no such thing."

Catherine was flooded with a warm rush of relief as her eyes flashed from Francis, to Henry, then back onto Francis. She could keep silent no longer as she rose from her throne. "Should I send for Olivia? To calm your anxieties?"

Francis turned to Catherine, drinking in her words as they seemed to fan his fury into a roaring flame.

"My fiancée and brother are _missing_ , and you want me to seek solace in Olivia!?" Francis snapped. He then turned to Henry and begged, with pleading eyes, "Father, _please_. This waiting - it is maddening! I can go! I know the forest well enough! I can track Bash down and-"

"Enough! If you suggest leaving this castle _one more time_ I will not hesitate to throw you into the dungeons, Francis!" Henry's dark eyes bored into Francis; wary, yet hungry for the chance to bring truth to his threat. "I told you that this pagan problem was yours to handle; and you may very well lose your brother _and_ your betrothed within the carnage!"

Francis' mouth fell open as his expression shifted into disdain.

Catherine squared her shoulders. "Henry that is _quite_ unfair. This isn't-"

"This is what being a ruler means, son!" Henry continued, cutting over Catherine's words as if she were nothing more than a common scullery maid. "Lives are always at risk, at our hand, at our will. I can only hope that this failure will remind you to never be influenced by your heart ever again! If this happens when you are king, you could lose ten thousand men. You could even lose France. You may have _already_ lost us any chance at ruling England!"

The Dauphin paled and shrank. His eyes blinked rapidly as he nodded slowly.

"You can't know that this was Francis' fault!" Catherine insisted, shuffling forward and inserting herself strategically between her husband and her son.

"And as for you…" began Henry, grounding Catherine with his sunken glare as he blatantly ignored her interjection once again, "why don't you make use of that slithering tongue of yours, and tend to our English guests?"

Catherine pursed her lips. A bubbling sensation of scorning hatred stirred at the pit of her stomach as she stared back at her husband; wondering -briefly- when their hearts had truly shifted, and why they had grown to loath one another so fiercely. The French Queen regularly blamed her falling-out with the King of France solely on Diane and Sebastian. It made sense, after all. Though, there were times when she could plainly see that she and Henry were never _truly_ meant to be...

With a quirked brow and a slight nod, Catherine conceded. "I will see to it that our guest's concerns are quieted."

Henry's head turned, jawline sharp and unforgiving. He looked to Francis and softened, ever slightly, before murmuring, "begone."

Francis looked to Catherine with confused eyes, searching her face for an answer. Instead of responding, however, the French Queen pulled a wan smile and placed her hand on the small of Francis' back while urging her son hurriedly towards the exit of the throne room.

Once in the hallway, Francis quickened his stride and took the lead while they surpassed a sea of silently posted guardsmen. Catherine trailed quickly after the Dauphin with clicking heels; internally scrambling her thoughts to discover a way to correct the rising chaos.

If Mary was not found and returned to the castle, and _soon_ , the Queen feared that Henry's anger may lead to a series of unfathomable events. Fortunately -for now- their English guests had not yet seen how truly shaken the French King was – but, how long could Catherine keep their guests at bay? How long could French Court keep this terrible accident a secret? And, as dismal as it was to consider, how long could Queen Mary survive without aide – _if even she were still alive_?

Francis turned a corner at the end of the hallway and twisted about to view his mother in full. With blatant irritation, the Dauphin threw his hands up into the air and ran his fingers through his golden locks in the same frustrated mannerism that he had performed since childhood. "Has he gone mad!? Threatening to throw me into the dungeons…"

"He isn't seeing things clearly." Catherine cooed, folding her hands at her front. "Queen Mary's link to the English throne makes her invaluable to your Father. You know that. Also, Sebastian's _stubborn_ desire to bring justice forth has put his life at risk. That bastard boy… going after her alone! What a foolish decision..."

"Thank God that he has! He's her only chance, now!" Francis respired, dropping his hands and placing them firmly at his hips. His expression became difficult to read as he averted his eyes down the hallway, seeking desperately for _something_ that would ease his anxious mind. With a heavy sigh, he flicked his gaze back onto Catherine and inquired, with a sorrow filled tone, "is this my fault, Mother? Truly? Did my heart lead them to their ruin!?"

Catherine internally cursed Henry for causing Francis such grief.

 _Your Father is a fool!_ She thought, angrily. But, what she said was, "absolutely not! You listen to me, Francis; your heart is good! It's good enough to love your bastard brother and to try to love your future wife. If only your Father's heart could do that…"

The French Queen's voice trailed as Francis suddenly brightened.

" _You_ can help me get away! I know that there are hidden tunnels within the castle, and I know that you've used them!" Francis insisted, stepping towards her and reaching for her hands. "Mother, I _must_ go find Mary. I _must_ make sure that Bash is safe. If you would only help–"

Catherine moved her hands to the top of Francis' narrow shoulders, instantly silencing him as she gently squeezed, and smiled fleetingly. "I would if I could, my sweet son."

As if his calm demeanor were a flame against the winds Francis' features suddenly darkened. He shrugged Catherine's hands free from his shoulders and drew quickly away from her, distancing himself so that she could not reach for him again. "I doubt that entirely."

"On what whim?" Asked Catherine, mouth tightening.

" _On what whim_!?" He echoed, throwing his hands up into the air with blatant disbelief. A crash of lightning illuminated the dark hallway, reminding the castle and all of its inhabits of the dismal weather, and causing both Catherine and Francis to absentmindedly flinch. Then, as if the natural phenomenon were fueling him further onward, the Dauphin continued, "you have _never_ cared for Mary, and you certainly don't care for Bash! I'm sure you're enjoying this; knowing that they are both in danger!"

"That's not true." Catherine defended, stepping towards her son.

Francis stepped backwards, as if her touch would poison him, while expelling a breath of air loudly from between his lips. "Isn't it!?"

A lump, not easily swallowed, began forming within Catherine's throat. She hadn't felt it necessary to explain herself to Francis. But, if he could not see reason, she would make certain that he understood her motives. "I care about my family, and I will _always_ put my family first. I will always put _you_ first! Everything that I do, I do for you. _Everything_. One day, God willing, you will have children, and you will understand that unyielding desire to protect your family at all costs!"

There was a contemplative silence wherein Francis seemed to consider what Catherine was saying. And the French Queen thought, perhaps, that she may have succeeded in swaying her son…

Then, with lips that coiled past his teeth in a frustrated sneer, Francis declared, "I understand completely. But what you fail to acknowledge, _Mother_ , is that Mary and Bash _are_ my family."

Catherine had a sudden flash of memory as her son's words sank deep into her ears; and it was disorienting in its clarity.

She saw a young Francis, running into Sebastian's arms with excitement as the king's bastard son arrived from an extended trip away with Diane. Sebastian looked upon Francis with beaming adoration and hugged him close, before drawing back and running his fingers through the Dauphin's golden hair – tousling it like an older brother would do. She could distinctly recall the fear that had flourished within her as she watched them interact; and she had realized that the young boys –only ten and seven years old– were so very _attached_ …

Then, unbidden, another memory charged forward.

This time it was of a youthful girl with bouncy, dark hair; running behind an adolescent Francis while chasing him up and down the hallways and giggling sweetly. Catherine had watched as the young Queen Mary finally caught Francis by the hand, intertwining her small fingers with his and whispering something deep into his ear. Francis flushed and bit his lip, then nodded excitedly. Yes, Mary had been so charming and full of life; capturing Francis' interests and heart at _quite_ a young age…

Suddenly, like a cloud of smoke being cleared by the howling winds, the images faded away.

Catherine opened her mouth to protest Francis' accusations; but, to her dismay, the Dauphin had continued down the dark hallway without her, leaving her to stew within her distant memories.

* * *

 **M** ary collided down onto the forest ground, roughly. A forced gasp escaped past the young queen's lips as the harsh impact jarred her, and her ears twitched to the sound of her captor's cruel laughter, trickling down from the saddle from which he threw her.

A mixture of dirt and mud caked into the center of Mary's nails as she twisted around onto her backside, and she peered cautiously about herself in an attempt to identify her current location.

Forest, forest, and more forest.

It was impossible to know how far they had journeyed, or how deep into the Blood Wood the men had stolen her. The only thing that Mary knew for certain was that the storm had finally passed, allowing for the cold winds to fade and the crimson morning sky to reach hauntingly down from the shifting clouds. Still -despite the shift in weather- the air maintained its crisp and unwelcoming bite, and the Queen of Scots' long, drenched gown maintained a chill.

But she had survived. Despite the storm, and the painful ride, and the long, sleepless night…

 _I survived._

Mary's heart contracted as she relived the awful events within her mind; thinking of her terrifying capture and the lasting look within Lola's eyes as the young queen was drug away into the dark, wet forest.

For a time, after her initial seizure, the men and Mary had traveled only on foot. They had yanked her painfully along as the storm raged overhead, frequently reminding her that 'if she were to scream' they wouldn't hesitate to remove her head from her neck. Then, to her dismay, they regrouped with a pair of stubby, wild-looking horses; one of which she was quickly secured upon, wedged tightly in-between the arms of her taller and more vicious captor. From that point on, their successful escape was inevitable; and any event that took place afterward was a blurred mixture of trees, rain, and lightning within Mary's memory.

Pressing her eyes tightly shut, the Queen of Scots began nudging herself haltingly above the ground in an effort to distance herself from the vile men who now reined their horses to a halt. The numbness that had taken hold of her legs and arms, due to the frozen weather and discomfort while riding, made her desperate movements clumsy and painful. Long, sharp roots grabbed and snagged against her sullied gown like greedy, evil fingers, until her spine eventually flattened against the trunk of a dying evergreen tree.

With a guarded expression, Mary blinked her eyes cautiously open. A mixture of curiosity and fear swirled at the pit of her stomach as she looked upon her captor's faces – realizing that she could finally view their features beneath the morning's blush of light.

The taller man had long, greasy hair, and a scar that stretched diagonally across his stubbled face, coloring through his right eye in a distinctively pink hue. The shorter man had a small beard and a balding spot at the center of his head, the sheen of which glistened brightly with the sunlight, and he was heavy-set in the means of regularly consumed ale and sweets. Both men were dressed in old, black robes that reeked heavily with a mixture of smoke and absinthe, and their skin was covered in ashy spots that hinted at their age.

The Queen of Scots watched with weary eyes as the two men dismounted in front of her, one at a time, each taking a moment to glance upon her face with murderous intentions held deep within their separate gazes. They silently secured the reins of their horses onto low-hanging tree branches and stretched their spines with palms pressed tightly against their lower backs, grunting as their tensions cracked and released.

Mary swallowed thickly as her taller captor withdrew his sword from the sheath at his hip and crossed the wet forest ground with heavy feet.

"Not a sound." He commanded, jabbing the edge of the weapon towards her neck.

Mary considered this. She doubted entirely that anyone would hear her even if she _were_ to scream out. Regardless, she nodded her head slowly up and down and averted her eyes onto the moss-covered ground.

To her surprise, the scarred man lowered the weapon and twisted about on his booted heel, gesturing towards his shorter companion while mumbling, "watch her; I've got to piss like a horse."

The moist earth sank beneath his booted heels as the scarred man disappeared into the forest to 'relieve' himself.

Mary's eyes shifted tentatively onto the shorter man. Briefly, she envisioned how she might incapacitate him; perhaps by grabbing up a tree branch or lobbing a hefty rock into his head. Reason, however, slowly crept in and destroyed any plans for liberation. She was unarmed, terribly weak, and uncertain of where she was or if there were other likeminded individuals shadowed within the Blood Wood…

And that, in itself, shed light on an even _more_ terrifying thought; for the young queen hadn't the slightest idea of _who_ these men were, or where their alliances fell, or what their intentions were… or how far their reach spanned across French country. At one point, Mary had dared to presume that they were members of an English radical group – seeking, of course, to remove her as the potential ruler of England. It _almost_ made sense… but these men didn't _quite_ fit that violent profile.

No.

Her captors were members of something _else_.

Something dark and twisted.

Something…

"Can't we just do it here?" The shorter man suddenly called out, scrunching his face into a distortion of restlessness. He was rolling his balding head back and forth, clearly tired and anxious, while leaning against his horse's side and rubbing absentmindedly at the bulge of his stomach.

Mary's hands tightened into fistfuls of fabric as she gripped at her ruined dress. The shorter man's question swirled between her ears, taunting her with its subtlety while lighting fires of fear within her mind. Can't we just do it here? Can't we just do it here? Can't. We. Just. Do. It. Here?

 _Do what?_ She silently inquired, all the while tackling down her suspicions for the worst…

The scarred man eventually re-emerged from the tree-line and shot his shorter companion a look full of ire. He strode forward, an image of fire and fury and annoyance, and spat, "no, we cannot just _do it here_!"

His companion winced in immediate response, acting as though he'd been physically battered. "Right – _sorry_."

The scarred man ignored his companion's dramatic display and bent forward, scooping up a tree branch and tossing it forcefully towards his 'friend'. "Help me, to cover our tracks! This is where we change direction, and _this_ is where we will lose them."

Still shaken, the shorter man managed to gather himself well-enough to catch the thin branch as it flew towards his face. He held it high between his hands and examined it with pursed lips. After a beat, he gathered enough courage to inquire in a mumbling tone, "' _them'_?"

There was a long silence, wherein the taller man glanced to Mary with little but malice and contempt held within his gaze. Then, with his head cocked slightly to the left, he smirked wickedly. He responded to his companion, but it felt oddly personal to _her_ … "The kings guard will be on our trail, by now. But you needn't worry – I'll make certain that those _bastards_ never catch us."

He successively barked out a deep, rolling bout of chuckles, sending a paralyzing chill to travel through the blood in Mary's veins.

She shifted uncomfortably, pressing her back firmly against the decaying wood of the evergreen as the men began their arduous task of brushing tree branches across the ground similarly to a pair of twisted brooms. Mary watched with growing trepidation as muddy twigs and wet leaves flew back and forth across the earth; and, to her dismay, the foliage began falling into perfect piles above the horse's deep hoof prints, obscuring the trail into nonexistence.

The Queen of Scot's heartbeat quickened as a panic began to set in, and she wrestled down the rising feeling of dread within her gut. Would her captors truly cover their tracks so well that the king's guard would lose the trail? It seemed unlikely. And yet, at the same time, undeniably plausible...

 _There must be a way that I can help the guards find the trail…_

Then, much like the sun dawning on this dark and dreary morning, an idea struck Mary so plainly that she nearly cried out with joy. There was an emerald ring upon her finger -one that she oftentimes adorned as a reminder of Scotland and of her home- that was small enough to be dropped unnoticed, but large enough to be seen by keen eyes.

It could work, she considered, while burying her hands into the folds of her dress.

The sudden sound of sticks being tossed deep into the forest caused Mary's breath to catch. She darted her eyes back and forth between her two captors, realizing -with dread- that their task was finally complete. The shorter man collapsed dramatically against his horse, breathing heavily through his nose so that it made a whistling sound with every inhale. The taller man, on the other hand, seemed hardly winded as he walked towards the Queen of Scots with a bored expression etched tightly across his features.

"Now," the scarred man called over his shoulder to his shorter companion, "ride in a circle at the center of this opening. It will confuse our pursuers. When you're done, exit over there-" he paused to point to the left "-and meet me several yards ahead, in this direction-" again, a pause with a pointed finger in the opposite direction.

Mary's skin crawled as the scarred man knelt forward and gripped her shoulders between his calloused hands. He lifted her up onto her feet with a jolt, causing the Queen of Scots to waver slightly. An alarming soreness ached between her thighs where the horse's back had rubbed against her for several unrelenting hours, and she struggled to awaken the sensation above her knees. Still, despite the pains, the young queen held her ground and rounded her shoulders; resolutely determined to remain brave and unflinching.

"Well now, aren't you a _valiant_ little queen." Said the scarred man in a sharp tone, hauling Mary over towards his anxiously whickering horse.

In response, Mary pushed her palms against the man's broad chest and shot him a look full of animosity. Feeling bold, she met his challenging tone and warned, "whatever you're planning, you won't get away with it. You will be caught, and you _will_ be hanged for your crimes against the crown."

The scarred man barked out a laugh before lifting Mary up and onto the saddle with little finesse. "Ah, that's where you're wrong, little queen. You see, I already _have_ gotten away with it, haven't I?"

He then waved his arm out around him for emphasis, gesturing at the surrounding vast of murky forest.

Mary's jaw tensed, and she took a moment to glance back at the shorter man as he began steering his horse in an endless circle. She swallowed thickly, rounding her shoulders and raising her chin, and spoke loudly enough for both men to hear. "If you take me back to the castle, immediately, I will ensure your lives. Otherwise-"

The scarred man mounted the horse behind Mary, wrapping his arms around her torso and reaching for the reins. Mary's stomach twisted and churned as he then whispered coolly into the back of her ear, "I quite like our odds."

The scarred man then dug his heels into his horse's belly, urging the steed into the depths of the Blood Wood.

Mary nervously twisted and fumbled with the Scottish crested ring as their direction of travel became apparent. With smuggler's ease, she slipped the jewelry free from her finger and allowed it to roll down the length of her leg and plummet quietly down onto the sodden forest ground below.

 _I quite like my odds, as well._

* * *

 **B** ash had traveled, from dusk to dawn, through areas he had dared not ever enter before; following a trail that led him deeper and deeper into the most dangerous sections of the Blood Wood. His heart was thundering within his ears, pounding to the same cadence of his horse's racing footfalls, and he ignored the constant whipping of branches as they left small, red marks across his frozen, pallid cheeks.

Nothing -certainly, no acts of nature- would halt Bash's pursuit; not the storm, not the dense forest, not the darkness of the night, not _even_ his growing exhaustion. Though, these did prove to be substantial forces when stacked in combination… and there were a _few_ moments when Bash's body -and soul- felt helpless against the pelting sheets of wind-driven rain.

Fortunately for him, however, the relentless winds had managed to drive the unyielding storm out onto the Eastern horizon; and, at present, the dawning sunlight was able to glance through the trees and illuminate the ground before him.

With his heightened ability to now see the trail of hoof prints clearly and without disruption, Bash resolutely followed the dual set of tracks as they wound in and out of the trees like a pair of slithering snakes.

In some places, the trail was clear and obvious. In other places, the hoof prints were shallow and difficult to spot. And - _occasionally_ \- the imprints appeared to have vanished completely, only to reappear half a league farther on when Bash had all but given up hope. Fortunately, the king's bastard had been able to relocate the trail each time he'd lost it; whether it had veered too far to the left, or curved too sharply to the right, or covertly cut beneath a bushel of low-hanging branches …

That was, until _now_.

Bash pulled his horse into an abrupt stop in the middle of an abandoned clearing, glancing desperately about as he realized the trail had once again faded out of existence. Or, rather, _morphed_ into a trail of… what? _Twenty other trails_? No, that couldn't be right…

With exhausted legs that ached in protest, Bash dismounted from the saddle and stroked his fingers down the side of his horse's long face; leading him into the center of the clearing where the tracks seemed to both sporadically deepen and soften. His faithful steed, whose neck gleamed with a heavy sheen of sweat, shook his large head from side to side and exhaled to the sound of loud lip-flapping.

Bash knelt down onto an extremely tired and quivering knee while pressing his gloved fingers into the moist, cold earth beneath his booted heel. The foliage appeared to have been tampered with in an unnatural kind of way, and he narrowed his silver eyes onto the endless flow of tracks that looped around him in several opposing directions.

 _No, no, no…_

Straightening in one fluid motion, Bash scrubbed his hands over his face and began to spin around in a tight and desperate circle. A wave of fear crashed throughout his tired, aching body as his eyes scanned the tree-line, over and over, searching for some sort of _sign_.

He couldn't afford this delay. He couldn't allow this time to be wasted as he searched for the correct tracks. He couldn't grant Mary's abductors any further advance in distance. He had to find the trail – now!

With frantic movements, Bash began to walk the length of the opening while observing each hoof print critically. He walked to the far end, then back, then circled around, then knelt forward, then pushed aside several leaves and rocks, then straightened, then chucked a large tree branch deep into the forest with a frustrated passion. There were hundreds of hoof prints. _Hundreds_! It looked as if twenty horses had encircled the opening; all running around in their own scrambled mess!

A sudden pressure began to build within Bash's chest -forming out of a mixture of fear, exhaustion, and profound consternation- and the burden of it dropped him to his knees. The evergreens swayed casually against the chilling breeze as they whispered to him mockingly; and Bash's breath began to shake and quiver as a cold realization crept into his mind.

He had completely lost the trail; and the thought of it broke his heart, choked his spirit, and quenched whatever determination remained. Unable to control the tension within his chest, Bash expelled his stress in the form of a loud, belting cry that echoed deep into the heart of the Blood Wood.

"MARY!"

A group of songbirds took flight above him; undoubtedly frightened by his unexpected outburst. He listened for an answer with strained ears, but the only response he received was the soft sigh of the wind and the fluttering of terrified wings.

 _It can't end like this_ , a small, ever shrinking voice called from within his soul. He would not accept it. He _could not_ accept it!

A hasty gust of frigid, wintry wind stirred up the loose forest ground and grasped at Bash's robe like a force from above; imploring him to stand and continue onward. He winced as the pine needles and leaves engulfed him, raising his arm to shield his face from the flurry of petals and pines...

And he _almost_ missed the gleam of something small and sparkling in the distance.

With silvery eyes fixated upon the small glowing object, Bash pressed his palms into his trembling knees and drew himself haltingly upward. Blinking back his emotions and swallowing down his grief, he moved towards the shimmering object with wavering feet, uncertain of what he was about to discover within the muck of the sodden forest ground. The object led him away from the clearing, off into the deeper section of the woods, causing him to duck below low-hanging evergreen limbs and trudge through several shallow rain puddles.

Finally, beneath rotting wood and twisted splintered branches, Bash uncovered a small, emerald ring.

Fueled by curiosity, he bent forward to lift the jewelry from the ground and balanced it carefully between the tips of his fingers. The small jewel had almost been entirely engulfed by a thick clot of mud and dirt, and it appeared to have been pounded into the ground beneath the repetitive smash of horse hooves. Still, the king's bastard could make out the carvings of a small emblem at the ring's surface, hiding just below the thick line of grime and muck.

With careful, gentle fingers Bash brushed the remaining mud and dirt free from the rings surface; and his eyes widened as he examined the illustrious Scottish seal embedded into the center of the bright green jewel.

 _Mary…_

With a newly ignited hope, Bash closed his gloved fingers tightly around the precious treasure and rose to his feet.

* * *

 **T** he scarred man pulled back on the reins as they burst through the tree-line, bringing his snorting horse to an abrupt halt.

"There it is."

Mary swayed uncomfortably within the saddle as she glanced across the field. A sea of red poppies blanketed the forest ground before her, and at the center of the wine-colored meadow stood a large, white oak tree. It was an oddly specific sort of scene -the kind that one would read about in books or hear about in legends- and its eeriness was illuminated even further by the setting of the sun in the distance.

Everything within the meadow was silent and still, like the calm before the storm, and Mary was frightened of what came next.

"Finally." The shorter man mumbled alongside them, expressing his exhaustion with a rather dramatic exhale.

The horse between Mary's legs pawed at the moist earth below, shaking his large head back and forth as the scarred man dismounted from behind her.

"Let's finish this." He grumbled, reaching towards the back of the horse and withdrawing a long, splintered rope from the leather satchel that was fastened at the rear of his saddle.

Mary could not contain the widening of her eyes as the scarred man yanked her down off of the horse's back and shoved her to her knees. As her hands collided roughly with the earth, the young queen's thoughts began to race. A rope?

 _What in God's name could they be needing a rope for?_

Before she had time to over-analyze the object -or its _purpose_ \- the scarred man snapped Mary's attention back into place as he walked towards the large oak tree, swinging the rope loosely between his hands.

The series of events that took place immediately afterwards were enough to unearth the reality of who these men truly were…

Firstly, the scarred man swung the rope up and over the highest and most thick branch, catching it on the other side and tugging it as tightly as the line would allow. Then, the shorter man began setting fires to several torches while circling around the base of the tree; sending a flickering, orange glow across the oak's pale surface. Lastly, the men began to mutter some sort of ancient and _vicious_ chant in a tongue that Mary could not decipher, despite her years of studying different languages and dialects.

Then, as if a clouded veil had been lifted within her mind, Mary became privy to the horrible, _terrifying_ truth; and she could not contain the gasp that fell past her lips.

 _Oh, no._

These men were a part of the pagan radical group that Bash had been sent out to find. These were the heretics who had been draining innocent people of their blood within the woods. These were the _murderers_.

It all made so much sense, now.

And yet, none at all.

 _Why me?_

With hands that trembled, Mary caught her elbows within her hands and cradled her arms tightly around her body. A knot of terrible fear began to twist inside of her as she briefly considered the prospect of being hung by her feet with her throat slit open; and the image made her skin crawl and her stomach turn. Was this _truly_ how her life would end? This gruesome, horrible sacrifice that had nothing to do with her or her beliefs?

To calm herself, Mary bit down onto her lower lip and dropped the gaze of her eyes; focusing, instead, on her clash of distorted memories. Flashes and images of precious moments flew through her mind, sifting by like a distant dream as she pictured everyone, everything, and every place that she had ever cared for and loved…

First, she thought of her friends, Lola, Aylee, Kenna, and Greer, and of their unwavering loyalty to her. She then thought of her mother and brother, of whom she had not seen or held in many years, but still felt a devout sense of love for. She thought of her people, of Scotland, and of how she wished that she had been able to do more for her beautiful country and home. She thought of Francis, and of the future that they were meant to have as rulers; side by side until the end of their days. And, lastly, she thought of Bash…

The thought of never seeing the king's bastard son again -with his silver eyes, sweet smile, and wild soul- was enough to unravel her completely. Mary pressed her fingers tightly against her lips to suppress the sudden sob that threatened to burst free as silent tears fell down her face; much like the rains that had soaked her through the night before.

Somehow, despite her sorrows, the young queen remained aware of the pagan's deep chanting as it echoed up into the night's sky in the form of a low rolling harmony; and she _certainly_ noticed when the chanting had suddenly stopped, without warning.

Mary blotted the back of her mud caked hands against her cheeks and flicked her eyes upward, trailing her gaze after the pagan men as she gathered her waning composure.

"We should slit her throat before she can scream." The short man's voice suggested as he sauntered around the young queen, circling her like a hawk.

"No – stop – _please_ …" she commanded, holding her hands out while drawing slowly to her feet.

The scarred man began to circumnavigate around Mary in the opposite direction; and she felt like a hare cornered by two ruthless hounds as the bloodthirsty flash at the center of the pagan's eyes terrified her beyond words.

"No," began the scarred man, responding to his companion's suggestion, "we must hang her first. Resume the chant."

"You don't have to do this!" Mary tried, swatting at the scarred man's hands as he began to reach for her. Behind her, the shorter man continued to recite the foreign tune, and the sound of the chant -dark, menacing, and _evil_ \- somehow incited her fear even further. She attempted to back away, but was caught between the men as they closed the space around her. Her voice caught as she cried out, once again, "you-you _don't_ have to-"

"Shut _up_!" The scarred man yelled, rearing his arm back and slapping his knuckles firmly across Mary's face.

The Queen of Scotland fell to the ground, clutching her cheek as it pulsed with searing pain. Before she could react, the scarred man wrapped his arm around her neck and grasped a fistful of her dark locks between his coarse fingers. He then began to drag the young queen backwards, uprooting and smashing her across the dainty sea of poppies as she fearlessly fought against him.

"No! Let go of me! LET GO OF ME!" Mary screamed, raking warm flesh with her nails and kicking against the scarred man with all of her might.

"I said SHUT UP!" The pagan grunted, straining his forearm more tightly against Mary's throat.

She tried to bite, tried to punch, tried to breathe. But, despite her efforts, the world began to take on a serene, misty quality...

Suddenly, and without prelude, the shorter man's chanting voice was cut short; replaced, instead, with the sounds of a loud and disconcerting _gurgling_.

The low, guttural sound caused the scarred man to pause in his task, and he glanced up and over Mary's body onto his companion with a furrowed brow. "Why did you sto- _AHHH_!"

A small dagger -swift as an arrow- flew through the air and embedded itself into the side of the pagan's shoulder, causing him to release his hold on Mary's neck and stumble backwards with disorientation.

The Queen of Scotland rolled onto her side, shaking and coughing, and it was all that she could do to keep her eyes from fading in and out of focus. She could hear the scarred man grunting as he dislodged the dagger from his flesh; and she caught the familiar sound of his sword being drawn as he removed it from its sheath. For a time, a battle raged between the pagan radical and whomever the dagger belonged, and Mary blinked through blurry tears as the rapid, discordant sounds of clashing steel rang throughout her ears.

There was a sudden and unanticipated pause to their skirmish, wherein the scarred man groaned, "you're the _bastard_ I was told about…"

Silence.

Mary could feel the presence of someone different standing near her now; protectively rooting himself in-between her and the pagan extremist.

Then a calm voice -soft and kindly and _so_ familiar- responded.

"And you're a dead man."

… _Bash!?_

Mary reached her fingers up into her eyes and pressed at them gently, willing her sense of sight to return. After a moment of rapid blinking, the young queen finally regained her vision well enough to perceive the scene displayed before her; and her heart pounded as she looked upon Bash, illuminated by the torch flames at the base of the tree, standing beside her with his sword drawn and held at the ready.

A war-cry erupted from the scarred man's mouth as he charged forward, raising his blade high above his head with deadly purpose…

… but the king's bastard was much quicker; and the _slicing_ of Bash's sword -as it plunged smoothly into the center of the scarred man's gut- was a sound that Mary knew she would _never_ forget.

The pagan radical tumbled forward, haltingly, and a crimson stream of liquid poured down from between his narrow lips. His dark eyes locked onto the Queen of Scots as they faded with the glow of life, and she perceived the _exact_ moment in which her captor gasped his final breath.

Once it was obvious that the pagan was -in fact- _dead_ , Bash wrenched his sword free from the scarred man's abdomen and rushed to Mary's side.

"Can you ride with me?" Bash gently inquired, his silver eyes searching her face so intensely that -had it been under any other circumstance- Mary certainly would have flushed.

The Queen of Scotland nodded her head, slowly up and down, and made an effort to speak; but she was silenced by the gentle cradling of Bash's hands as he scooped her up into his arms. The soothing scents of pine and cinnamon that ever-lingered within his hair engulfed the young queen's senses as he pulled her in close and rose to his feet; moving with motions so effortless and smooth that she had almost believed it to be a dream.

Despite Bash's desire to remove Mary from the gory meadow scene as _quickly_ as possible, the king's bastard managed to situate the young queen gently atop the back of his horse with painstaking caution. He then carefully climbed up into the saddle behind her, wrapping his arms cautiously about her frame, and grasped at the reins with quivering hands before kicking his heels into the belly of his horse.

Mary chanced a glance back into the poppy-field as they re-entered into the dark, perilous Blood Wood; and she was oddly satisfied to discover both men, face-down in the grass, surrounded by two expanding pools of blood beneath the glow of the shimmering moonlight.

* * *

 **B** ash had no true understanding of pagan rituals or customs, despite his distant familial relation to the religion and the limited conversations that he had shared with his mother. In truth, he had never given much thought to the pagan's and their unusual system of beliefs; and he'd never imagined that his heritage would one day lead him into _murdering_ two men -in cold blood- for their devout spirituality. Faintly, he wondered if the dead men had families and children; and his heart sank at the thought, despite its absurdity.

Still, he reasoned, they were going to kill an innocent person. A royal person.

And not just _any_ royal person.

 _Mary_.

Bash's trembling fingers tightened forcefully upon the reins within his hands as he recalled the first man he had ever killed at his father's side; and the King of France's words, blunt and clear, rang throughout his ears as if Henry were standing beside him, now…

" _Killing isn't supposed to be easy,"_ his father's voice ensured, like a whisper caught up within the wind, _"if your hands weren't trembling, you'd be him."_

It felt like a lifetime ago.

As the heavens darkened into the deepest shade of blue they could design, signaling that Bash was now traveling beneath a midnight sky, the king's bastard guided his trotting horse into a thick section of evergreens and pulled his steed to a silent stop. Between his arms, seated stilly and calm, Mary was as quiet as the night.

Bash dismounted, dropping onto the ground with surefooted precision, and he reached for the young queen with gentle hands. "Are you alright?"

Silence stretched as her large, brown eyes flicked downward to meet with his… and Bash felt rather sick as he looked at her in full, for the first time, truly seeing the physical _toll_ that this experience had taken upon her.

Mary's dress was ripped and soaked completely through, and her long, dark hair was knotted and unkempt. She was pale -more-so than her usual lovely porcelain complexion glowed- and her plump lips were chapped and cracked. There was a large mark on her face, bruising with maroon and blue hues; traveling from the crook of her ear all the way out into the center of her cheek.

And, just like that, any guilt that the king's bastard had felt in killing the pagans was _swiftly_ washed away. In fact, in this moment, Bash would have killed _hundreds_ of men for Mary…

"Y-yes," the Queen of Scots finally stammered, allowing herself to slide from the saddle and practically fall into his arms. Bash reflexively caught Mary and placed her gently upon the ground. Once she was standing soundly upon her own two feet, she inquired in a shaky voice, "y-you came alone?"

Bash ran his tongue across his teeth, uncertain of how to answer. The short answer was, _yes_. The long answer, however, was slightly more complicated…

"Lola found me – or, _rather_ , I found her – as I returned to French Court from my investigation. I hadn't arrived at the castle, yet. She told me of what had happened, and how you'd been taken into the woods, and I went off after you immediately. I sent her back into the castle to inform Francis and my Father – but, your kidnappers were very good at covering their tracks. I don't know that the king's guards could …"

Bash's voice trailed as he noticed the soft vibration of Mary's body and the successive flood of tiny bumps that traveled down her bare skin as she listened to him attentively. Without a moment's hesitation, he tugged his arms free from the sleeves of his cloak, one at a time, and wrapped the leather coat tightly around the young queen's narrow shoulders. A soft breeze crossed over Bash's chest as the frigid kiss of the wintry air flew into the loose fabrics of his tunic; but he couldn't be bothered with his own discomforts, now.

"Thank y-you," Mary breathed, teeth-chattering as she hugged the cloak tightly around her. She swallowed thickly, as if it pained her to speak, but she insisted on inquiring, "h-how did y-you find me?"

Once again, there was a short answer. And then there was a very, _very_ lengthy answer; involving a seer, and a dead pagan boy, and a long, hellish night that very _nearly_ destroyed Bash's soul.

"While I was investigating the claims of religious sacrifices, I was told of an oak tree in a field of poppies being a place for noble sacrifice among the pagans." Said Bash, trying for an abridged version.

His words -true as they may be- appeared to have struck a nerve, and Mary winced; though she was quick to square her shoulders and raise her chin, in attempts to mask her flash of fear. The brown of her eyes, however, was deep and full of longing; as if she was yearning for something to prove to her that everything would be _alright_.

Before his mind could catch up with his actions, Bash pulled his leather glove away from his right hand and reached forward, with gentle caution, and placed his bare fingers softly against her bruising cheek. The young queen sucked air quickly inward; but more-so in shock than in pain, as was signaled by the incline of her head as she pressed gently into the warmth of his hand.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, a little afraid of the answer.

"I will manage." Mary said, with quiet sincerity as the flush of her skin began to return along with the warmth of her body.

Silence stretched, wherein Mary studied Bash's face with an almost unnerving intensity. Then, in her smallest voice yet, the Queen of Scotland tilted her head away from the king's bastard's lingering touch and whispered, "they were going to sacrifice me, Bash. They were going to kill me."

Bash drew his hand sharply away as a wave of guilt crashed through him. "I am so _sorry_. I am …"

"You went out to investigate this – tell me; _why me_? What have I done to the… the _pagans_?" She pressed, averting her eyes down onto the forest ground and narrowing them with growing speculation. "Are they rebelling against the king? Is it… something Francis did? Has French Court passed some kind of regulation that-"

"It's _my_ fault."

Mary's eyes flickered onto Bash, surprised. Her lips parted, just enough to display her true shock. "What…"

Bash's jaw tensed. He turned away from her, clasping his hands tightly against his sides. He couldn't lie to her; even if he wanted to.

"The people of this faith, they claim that I owe them a debt. More than once, in their minds, I have interrupted their blood sacrifice…" his voice was fierce and serious, and he paused to reel in the rising vigor. "They threatened me. They swore that if I did not choose someone else to sacrifice, then they would choose someone for me..."

Bash's voice trailed as he turned back around to face her, and Mary's impassive expression struck him at his core. There was a great deal of fire within her eyes as she looked upon him with an expression bordering skepticism and distrust; and it lanced through Bash's heart like a knife.

"And now they have chosen me."

Bash deadpanned. His mouth did a series of pushups as he struggled to clasp onto the right thing to say. What _could_ he say? What would prove to Mary that he was still the same person that she had trusted and relied upon? How could he _fix_ this?

 _The truth_ , an inner voice whispered, _she deserves to know the truth_.

Bash discovered that he'd been holding his breath, and the one that he drew caused an ache in his lungs.

"I never would have cut those bodies down if I'd known it would lead to you," he began, hoarsely. "I promised you that I would never do anything to harm you, and I broke that promise. _Unwillingly_ , I broke it. But I assure you; nothing is going to hurt you while I'm around. Mary, I would die-"

" _Do not_ say that you would die for me! Do not!" Mary hissed, cutting over his words and surprising him. Bash's brow quivered as a hint of regret flickered across Mary's features, and her breath began to hitch with an emotion the king's bastard could not place. "I cannot bear to hear it, Bash! Not now – not _ever_ again!"

A stream of silent tears began to pour down Mary's cheeks; and something deep and _secret_ collided within Bash, birthing a storm within his heart that he could not calm.

Without thinking -and most certainly despite his better judgement- Bash reached forward and pulled Mary into him; wrapping his arms protectively around her shoulders while cradling her gently against his chest. He shouldn't have; he _knew_ that. She was a queen, and he was a bastard. She was royalty, and he was her subject. She was an image of innocence, and he had taken a life. She was engaged to a prince, and he was her fiancé's powerless brother. He wasn't worthy of her; and he certainly had no business comforting her in such a physically _intimate_ way.

There was a moment of stillness, like the quiet before the storm, wherein Mary may have pulled away from the king's bastard, sparing him of what could never be…

However, very unexpectedly -and much to Bash's surprise- the young queen leaned into his chest and enveloped her arms around him, nestling her face into the nape of his neck. Taken aback, Bash pressed his cheek gently into the top of Mary's head, allowing the flowery scent of her hair to fill his senses; and he closed his eyes as her rapid, shuttering breathing slowly paralleled into the same calming rhythm as his.

It was true. Bash may not have been worthy of Mary in the same ways that Francis was. The king's bastard possessed nothing of value to her – no dowry, no title, no money, no army.

But in this timeless, unmoving moment… he was enough.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Owwwwie, my heart :)

Let me know what you guys think of this chapter – I'd love to get your feedback!

Love.


	6. I Trust You

**A/N:** As always, thank you, thank you, thank you for the overwhelming support and encouragement!

* * *

 **Chapter Six : I Trust You**

 _The thunder in your heart echoes through the canyon  
The lightning in your eyes, it sets me free  
I don't really care where we are goin'  
I don't really mind, cuz you're with me  
Underneath the stars your hand in mine is all I need_

 _As long as you're with me  
I can't get lost_

 _-Lost,  
Jack and White_

* * *

 **M** ary nodded in and out of sleep for the remainder of the long, cold night.

Amidst the Blood Wood, and all of its eerie sounds, the young queen dreamt that she was secure within French Court; comforted by a warm bed, a full belly, and a crackling, vibrant fireplace. She dreamt of the familiar faces of her dearest friends -Aylee, Kenna, Greer, and Lola- and of their kindly, beaming smiles. She dreamt of Francis, apologizing for the ways in which he had acted and atoning for the cruel things that he had said regarding their engagement. She once, for a moment, even dreamt of Bash; standing in a long hallway with his hand outstretched, gesturing for her to run to him and play.

No matter the settings of her dreams, and regardless of who she saw within them, these waves of sweet illusions were all perfectly pleasant. Pleasant, and fleeting. For dawn came without mercy, and it cut through the trees and bore down onto Mary's face with a sharp dagger of light.

With a protesting sigh, the young queen awoke for the final time and blinked her reality into view. The pale pink light of dawn was flooding through the trees and sparkling down upon the damp stones, leaves, and grass; and the sight of it caused Mary to shudder and press her lips into a tight line. In leu of her delightful dreams of a warm bed, a full belly, and a crackling fireplace, the Queen of Scots was disappointed to discover that she was still seated atop a slow-moving horse, still starved, and still _quite_ freezing.

Mary shifted within the saddle, causing a deep, throbbing ache to course throughout her legs, acting as a silent reminder of the weariness that had taken hold of her body _and_ of her mind. For she was weary, indeed. Weary of riding, weary of hurting, weary of feeling so cold, weary of feeling so helpless, weary of feeling so afraid...

Suddenly, the sound and _sensation_ of someone exhaling into the back of Mary's head nearly caused the Queen of Scotland to plummet down from both saddle and horse.

She twisted around within her seat with readied fists, all the while fearing that she would discover the scarred face of the pagan extremist seated behind her. To her immediate shock, however, Mary came face-to-face with a pair of familiar, silvery eyes; glistening beneath a tilted -and clearly _stunned_ \- brow. The young queen froze as Bash's recognizable gaze flicked down onto her tightly clenched hands, accompanied by an expression that balanced on the edges of both apologetic and concerned.

 _Of course,_ Mary thought, relaxing her fists and internally kicking herself with embarrassment.

Bash's jaw tensed as he appeared to sift through a long list of things that he wished to say to her; but his countenance betrayed his inner mind, revealing far more than he likely desired.

Without hesitation, Mary twisted back around to her front while silencing the king's bastard before he could speak. She did not desire a conversation with him regarding the inner-workings of her mind; and she wished to keep her fears -and her _guilts_ \- at bay.

And guilts - _oh_ \- Mary had _plenty_.

Guilt for the way in which she had treated Bash; allowing her anger and fear to lash out in the form of words. Guilt for the way Bash's hands had trembled after he had killed the pagan extremists to save her. Guilt for the danger in which she had placed Bash within, due to her trudging out into the Blood Wood alone. And -of course- guilt for the way in which she had allowed herself to be vulnerable with Bash the night before, in such an _intimate_ way…

Mary's breath caught within her throat as she relived the _exact_ moment in which Bash had pulled her into his arms. She could still feel the distant traces and outlines of their quiet and intimate embrace…

But should she have pulled away?

Leading up to that moment, the night had been full of terrors, emotions, and horrible events; and the young, vulnerable queen had never been held in such an _affectionate_ way before…

How could she have been expected to pull away from Bash's outpour of comfort? How could she have been expected to pull away from that feeling of safety? How could she have been expected to pull away from _him_?

A sudden pang of anger flared throughout Mary's veins as a sobering truth shifted its way into the forefront of her mind. _Because you're a queen,_ it internally scolded, _and queens do not share intimate moments with their subjects._

For a time, the only sound that Mary could hear was that of the soft pattering of hooves as the horse trekked across the moist forest ground below, and this alone was not enough to jar her from her internal plights. Then, faint and distant, the accent of a low-rolling babble could be heard from deep within the evergreens, finally drawing Mary free from her private and berating thoughts. After a span of anticipation, a shallow stream came sparkling into view; winding in and out of the forest's greenery like a long, shimmering serpent.

Without an utterance, Bash pulled back on the reins and eased his horse into a halt. The tall, brown steed inhaled slowly, expanding his barrel of a stomach outward, then sighed in a loud lip-flapping release; almost as if he were expressing the word " _finally"_.

Mary furrowed her brow as the king's bastard then swung his leg up and over the side of the saddle, dropping down onto the earth with a soft _thud_. They exchanged a glance as Bash crooked his head gently to the side, relieving some deep-rooted tension that had built up within his neck overnight, and Mary watched as the bastard's breath misted up into the cold morning breeze.

No sooner had the fog disappeared into thin air when Bash silently reached his hand up towards her, causing the bottom of his thin tunic sleeve to shift and fall down his arm. Mary could see the goose-flesh covering his forearm as the morning chill charged viciously against his skin; and she wondered -guiltily- if Bash had been freezing the entire night without his coat…

 _Yes, but he'd sooner die than allow you to suffer._

Willing herself to dismiss the condemning thought, the Queen of Scots placed her hand gently within Bash's palm and steadied herself against his grip. With a wince, Mary slid down from atop the tall horse, mentally bracing herself for the pain. Despite her preparation, the moment her feet impacted with the damp forest ground, the young queen's knees buckled and collapsed -mostly, she reasoned, due to exhaustion and misuse- causing her to crumble against Bash's chest as if she were a delicate flower, helpless against the wind.

A traitorous heat began to rise from deep within Mary's chest, surfacing at the tops of her cheeks as she drew in a harsh breath and straightened. She was unsurprised to discover that the king's bastard was staring at her intensely; inspecting her face for any signs of fatigue or ill-health. And, of course, she couldn't help but recognize the noticeable hesitation of his silver eyes as they lingered upon the swell of her injured cheek.

In an act so small and sudden that she very nearly missed it, the king's bastard raised his hand as if he were going to gingerly touch her face again, but seemed to come-to in the very last moment -thinking better of it- and dropped his gloved hand back down to his side.

Mary cleared her throat, feeling an odd surge of intimacy as it rolled throughout her. Seeking desperately for a distraction, the young queen's gaze traveled throughout the clearing that they now stood within.

She settled her eyes onto the stream, where it collected into a small, clear pool, encircled by smooth, flat rocks and stones. At the edges of the trickling stream stood tall patches of grass and flowers, reaching up and twisting about to welcome the warmth of the morning sun. A small, fuzzy creature ventured down the thick trunk of a tree and scurried towards the water's edge in a bouncing flash of brown and white. Everything, it would seem, was tranquil and kind of spirit in this place; and now that the fog had lifted and the growls and howls of the more traitorous creatures of the night had been replaced by the charming melody of the early-rising songbirds, the forest appeared to be _remarkably_ beautiful.

Still, despite the precious animals, the beautiful sun-glanced petals, and the calming melody of the stream, this was not a place that Mary wished to remain.

"Why have we stopped?" She inquired, rather bluntly, with a voice still hoarse from cold and disuse.

Reacting as she'd hoped he would, Bash took Mary's voice as a sign of good health, despite its croak. He shifted softly past her and dug his hand deep into a satchel that hung loosely from the side of his saddle, then withdrew his palm and offered his tired horse a fistful of dried corn. As the steed loudly nibbled through the collection of hard grains, Bash responded to Mary with a cautious inflection.

"There is a village, just ahead. We will be safe there."

For a beat, Mary imagined what a town full of people might think when viewing the pair of them; emerging from the forest and looking as disheveled as they did. She couldn't imagine that Bash intended to let on about the _truth_ to a group of strangers … and she knew, for a fact, that King Henry would not agree to allowing this pagan 'problem' to become common knowledge throughout the kingdom.

"But, we appear… as if..." began Mary, struggling to place the perfect description of _how_ they appeared into a string of accurate words. For her part, she had a torn and bedraggled dress on, topped with a loose-fitting coat, a bruised cheek, and hair that she imagined to resembled that of a wild bird's nest. Bash, on the other hand, looked plainly exhausted and miserably _cold_ in his thin tunic, with speckles of dried, dark liquid covering him from head-to-toe, which had only become visible in the dawning sunlight.

Instead of remarking upon their outward aspects, Mary maintained an entirely new inquiry. "What do you plan on telling these villagers once we arrive?"

Bash ran the back of his free hand softly up and down the side of his horse's face as he silently considered this. While he deliberated, Mary found herself examining Bash more freely beneath the expanding light of the sun. Aside from his unkempt hair and the dark circles around his eyes, the king's bastard looked just as handsome as ever; and Mary was promptly reminded of how greatly she'd missed him in his absence…

And, honestly, what _was_ that dark splatter all over his arms and clothing? Mud? Dirt?

After a span, Bash glanced to Mary with gentle, silvery eyes and inflected his head. "We will tell them that I am your escort, and that we were attacked by bandits. It's close enough to the truth; and I don't want to strike fear within the hearts of these townsfolk."

"Honest people don't ride through the woods." Mary murmured, frowning.

By now, the horse had finished its treat of corn, and Bash clapped his hands together several times to rid them of any remaining powders. He then sighed, gravely, and quirked a brow. "Honest _foolish_ people do."

Mary's gaze trailed after Bash as he looped two fingers lightly around the horse's reins and led the tired beast out towards the shallow pool that collected at the center of the stream. Following his lead, the young queen shifted, haltingly, into a patch of sunlight near the water's edge as the horse began to drink from the small river. Mary pressed her eyes closed, briefly, as the warmth of the sun kissed the chill away from her cheeks – but her eyes flashed open as a jarring thought occurred, yanking her from her momentary bout of serenity.

 _Foolish people?_

"You think that you are 'foolish' for helping me?" The Queen of Scots asked, after a span, glancing towards Bash. She rubbed her hands together as a chill -either brought upon by the cold morning, or her disheartening thoughts- rushed down her spine.

Bash, however, was quick to thwart her rising dejection.

"I only meant that the woods are dangerous." He assured, releasing his hold on the horse and turning to face the young queen in full. "You've learned that."

Mary winced. She knew that she ought to get used to that kind of remark; for her return to French Court would _not_ be without harsh comments and judgements. She could practically hear Lola's 'I warned you' speech, even now…

As if reading her thoughts, Bash smiled disarmingly. "I will make it known that this was entirely my wrongdoing; your capture, the murders, _all of it_."

"Bash, you _cannot_ take all of the blame." Mary urged, shaking her head with a furrowed brow. "I won't allow it."

"I warned my father and Queen Catherine of this. They chose to ignore the threat." Bash insisted, unsheathing his sword from his hip as he spoke. The sound of the weapon, as it slid smoothly away from its sheath, caused Mary's stomach to twist; for she could only associate _one_ moment with that sound, now.

She watched, in silence, as Bash dipped his sword down into the water, twisting it back and forth against the slow-moving current. The blade warped and dulled beneath the surface of the stream, and a trail of red ribbons glided through the small river's flow. The Queen of Scots swallowed roughly as the blood slid between the pebbles and sands within the stream, and she caught herself momentarily reliving the _exact_ moment in which Bash's blade had gained its crimson color...

The scarred-man's war-cry as he rushed forward, the surge of overwhelming fear that Mary felt as she watched Bash sprint forward, and the quick dodge and plunge that ultimately landed the sword deep within the pagan's stomach.

Feeling bold, and wishing desperately to redirect her thoughts, Mary pressed, "do you truly believe that those heretics came after me because of your ... unwillingness to fulfill their demands?"

Bash's eyes shadowed as he removed his sword from the river. At length, he respired, "if I am to believe their warning, then yes."

Unable to stop the current of questions, and too tired to analyze whether it was appropriate or not, Mary further pressed, "do you believe that more heretics will come for me, now?"

"I should hope not; but I cannot promise you." A frown was set deeply into Bash's face for a moment, before finally he fixed an uneasy smile in its place. "Do you have many more _dreary_ questions for me this morning, Mary?"

Mary chewed her lip and shook her head. His answer -honest as it may have been- was daunting.

Bash stared at her thoughtfully, a hint of regret flickering across his eyes, before he turned silently away.

Then, without explanation or prelude, the king's bastard removed his leather gloves and began to unfasten the strings at the front of his tunic.

Well, _now_ she had plenty of questions.

"Bash, what on earth are you doing?" Mary asked, glancing about her cautiously as if someone may leap from the bushes and view the king's bastard half-naked.

Bash tossed his discarded clothing across the saddle atop his horse's back and knelt onto his knees, crashing his breeches loudly against the stones and pebbles at the edge of the stream. He bowed forward and cupped a handful of water between his bare hands, shivering slightly. Then, with little hesitation, he began to splash the water up and down his arms and chest, leaving a trail of frozen bumps across his chilled, pale skin. He released a _hiss_ through gritted teeth as the glacial droplets traveled down his body; and Mary's jaw fell open in an uncontrollable display of shock.

"Have you gone completely mad!?" The young queen blurted, blinking back her stunned countenance.

Bash sucked air loudly inward, vibrating slightly, and glanced up towards the young queen with a pained expression painted across his features. "I have blood on me – rather, _all_ over me. Blood that _is not_ mine. I'm not going to go gallivanting into that village looking like - " he paused, lowering both his voice and his gaze" - well, like I've killed someone."

He appeared distraught, perhaps guilty, and it immediately caused Mary's heart to plummet down into the vicinity of her boots.

 _Dried drops of blood._ _Of course_.

Mary nodded with silent understanding as Bash dipped forward and plunged his face deep into the water for one final, cleansing douse. As he straightened, the king's bastard shook his head and rose to his feet, causing the water to cascade down his chest and stream freely from the tips of his dark hair. He let out a harsh, loud gasp as the muscles across his chest and arms shuddered and tensed, and he scrubbed his hands vigorously across his stubbled face with a grimace.

The young queen found herself frozen in place, for a span. Though, contrary to feeling momentarily petrified, she felt exceptionally hot... all over, really.

When last had she _seen_ a shirtless man?

Perhaps never.

Certainly not like this.

Definitely not this _close_.

"You ... you should ... put this on…" Mary stammered, beginning the process of unfastening the buttons at the front of Bash's coat so that she may offer it forth. The sting of the morning air pressed inward as she loosened her covering, releasing whatever warmth remained in a hasty retreat.

"No." Bash quickly insisted.

Mary's eyes flickered upward to crash aggressively into Bash's. The king's bastard's eyes were persistent and unrelenting; but the trembling of his lips gave the young queen pause.

No?

Surely, he must have known that his health was at stake!

"You will catch a cold, drenched as you are in this weather!" She countered, shifting her shoulder blades together as she pulled one arm free from the leather coat.

Bash rushed forward and caught Mary squarely by the shoulders, halting her movements and stunning her into silence. The chill of his wet hands fueled the young queen's motivation even further; but the urgency of his tone was sobering in its purity. The Queen of Scots found herself internally torn as she and Bash challenged each other's next actions with mirrored, narrowed eyes.

"Blast it all, Mary, if there is _one_ thing that I can count on in this life, it is your unfaltering stubbornness!" Said Bash; though, the little smirk hiding within the dimples of his cheeks did not go unnoticed by the young queen. "The world will survive with one less bastard; but it cannot afford to lose a queen."

Had he been someone else - _anyone_ else- Mary may have allowed the conversation to end there.

But this was Bash.

"And what exactly do you expect me to do when you drop dead in the middle of the forest? Hmm? Take up your sword and fight my way to French Court?" Challenged Mary.

She could tell, despite his determination, that her words caused the king's bastard to second-guess himself for a beat. Still, ever full of wit, Bash quirked a brow and smiled enough to flash a bright row of teeth.

"I expect, if my death is to be a direct result of the cold weather, that you will keep the coat _on_." He countered, grabbing the sleeve that Mary had swiftly removed and tugging it back up and over her pale shoulder.

"And you think _me_ stubborn!" The young queen huffed, unable to stop herself from feeling slightly less impassioned.

In spite of her better judgement, Mary allowed Bash to gently re-fasten his leather cloak at her front. As his fingers worked, the king's bastard seemed to consider her wily comment for a moment; all the while brandishing a bemused expression upon his face. Once he had fastened the final button at the base of the jacket, a droplet of water, heavy in weight, fell from the tip of the bastard's chin, traveling down onto the center of his neck and plummeting _even_ further down onto the core of his bare stomach, leaving a glistening trail in its wake.

Mary's eyes followed nonchalantly after the droplet. She watched as the bead of water journeyed - _ever so slowly_ \- down, down, down… before disappearing, finally, into the brim of his breeches.

The Queen of Scots felt a foreign flutter within her stomach. Now that her eyes were cast downward, she could not help but notice the other icy droplets -not as heavy, nor as large- situated stilly across Bash's bare skin; catching the morning sunlight in a distractingly lustrous way.

"Your discontent is duly noted," Bash muttered, tugging Mary free from her reverie. He must have sensed the direction of her gaze, for he added, "I best get dressed, then – to avoid _dropping dead in the middle of the forest_."

Mary looked quickly away. She attempted to compose her features into something akin to disinterest; but her heart was thundering rapidly within her ears, creating an involuntary awareness to her barreling, uncontrollable thoughts.

Once, so recently, the young queen had imagined that a kiss might be the most wonderful experience of her life. Despite witnessing the consummation of a marriage upon her first day at French Court, Mary hadn't considered what may _properly_ occur beyond the first touch of her lips to another's. She knew that her and Francis would one day be expected to intimately share a bed… but she'd never _truly_ imagined the event, in full.

Now, however, she could _almost_ picture the affair. Bare skin pressed gently up against her, touching her softly in places that she'd never been touched before, feeling sensations within her entire body that she'd never been able to imagine, and letting go of all reserve while allowing herself to fall, lost within the splendor of it all …

Except, Mary couldn't _quite_ picture Francis, tangled up in an intimate embrace of sheets and limbs.

All that Mary could visualize -within this moment- was _Bash_. And not sheets. No, no… she could picture it here. _Right here_. At her feet, upon the grass, covered in dirt and mud and plants, swathed in nothing but the dawning sunlight…

This absurd thought coincided rapidly with the realization that Mary was picturing herself _being intimate with her fiancé's brother_ ; and she audibly gasped with mortified alarm.

Feeling decidedly awkward, the young queen immediately distanced herself from the king's bastard son, and retreated towards the edge of the river. As she stared at the current, however, Mary could not rid the recent image of Bash; rising up from the chilling stream, muscles trembling beneath the morning glow, water running down his devilishly handsome face and collecting within the small gap between his lips…

 _Oh, enough of this!_

Mary knelt forward and cupped a pool of water within the palms of her hands, as she had seen Bash do before, seeking solace in the calmness of the current. With a steadying breath she splashed the water against her flushing cheeks, gasping as the glacial pour sent a vicious bite down her neck. She rubbed the tips of her fingers deep into the lids of her eyes, brushing against her full lashes, all the while _willing_ the recurring image or her current companion to disappear.

Still, no amount of scrubbing could cleanse her of her wandering thoughts.

She wondered if Bash _always_ bathed in the wild; cleaning himself within the natural streams and rivers of the Blood Wood. She wondered if he often spent warm, summer nights sprawled out against the tall grass, too hot to be bothered with boots, or tunic, or breeches. Perhaps, Mary considered, this was where his alluring smells of pine and cinnamon originated from…

 _Stop!_

Another splash of water successfully chased away the inappropriate thoughts, for good.

The young queen straightened, eyes tightly clenched as droplets poured down from her brow and nose, and she blotted the leather sleeves of Bash's coat gently against her face. The deep sting of her bruised cheek elicited a wince as Mary touched the swollen skin; awakening memories of a hand brusquely slapping her across her cheekbone.

Any warm feelings or thoughts that Mary had held for Bash were _briskly_ whisked away as an image of the scarred pagan man barged inward and took their place.

When she opened her eyes, the young queen could have _sworn_ that she'd seen someone standing on the other side of the small river; a stout, ugly man with a balding head and a bulging tummy, staring at her menacingly…

Mary blinked rapidly and shook her head for clarity. Of course, there was no one there. Not _truly_.

A sickening feeling, like the reaction to the smell of old, spoiled meat, coiled around at the pit of her stomach. How long, Mary wondered, would these horrors haunt her? How long would these false visions display before her eyes? How long would she feel so vulnerable and afraid?

Glancing back over her shoulder, Mary watched as Bash collected his discarded clothes from atop the saddle, pausing to take notice of something in the distant sky beyond them. He, too, seemed to be caught within some obscured train of thought as his eyes fixated and narrowed.

The Queen of Scots turned her gaze off into the same direction and squinted upwards; catching sight of several buoyant trails of smoke as they floated up towards the brightening fall sky. The dark, winding clouds were unmistakably produced by a collection of chimneys, and Mary felt a sudden, overwhelming longing to avoid the village at all costs.

Was anywhere safe for her, now? Bash had admitted that there was a possibility -ever slight- that more pagans could be on the hunt for her... and that most certainly was not a risk that Mary was willing to take.

The Queen of Scots clasped her hands firmly together to keep them from fidgeting within her messy hair. She was hesitant to ask the question that burned within her throat; for she knew, somehow, what the answer would be.

"How long are you expecting to remain within this village?" She called back, over her shoulder.

Bash thought for a moment, running his hand across the bristles at his chin. His eyes flicked briefly towards her and then away. He pinched the neck of his tunic between his fingers and flapped the fabric through the air with a _snap_ , giving it a moment to 'breathe', before shoving his arm roughly into the sleeve of his tunic.

"The night." He voiced, dryly.

Mary could not mask her distress as she echoed, "the night!?"

Clearly anticipating this sort of reaction, the king's bastard nodded firmly.

"At the pace that we are traveling, it will take us at _least_ half of a day to arrive at French Court." Responded Bash, nonchalantly. He busily continued to dress, shoving his other arm up into the sleeve and leaving the plunging neckline unfastened as he slipped his hands into his dark leather gloves. "You are in desperate need of food, clothes, and rest. And the horse needs to-"

"We should continue on." Mary interrupted, gesturing towards the sky while not _quite_ able to keep the urgency out of her voice. "If you claim that it will take us half of a day to arrive at French Court then we best not delay our journey any further."

Bash narrowed his eyes and paused in his dressing. He raised a brow at her, his wet hair now mussed around his face in a manner that was remarkably alluring and strangely enduring.

"This isn't up for discussion, Mary." Bash responded, brusquely. He then casually strolled towards the young queen, as if their heated discussion were nothing more than a pleasant conversation about the weather or a particularly boring stretch of landscape.

Unaccustomed to being told what to do -especially by an individual who was _not_ considered her equal- Mary discovered that she knew not how to act. She glared at the king's bastard as a sudden flash of anger momentarily grounded her. "And now you're going to tell me – a _queen_ – what to do?"

Bash respired - _loudly_ \- and gestured towards the young queen's sullied dress. "Your clothes are ruined, you're very clearly tired… and when last did you eat?"

 _Eat_? The mere thought of food caused Mary's stomach to emit a sound so desperate and loud that she scarcely believed it to be real.

"When last did _you_ eat?" Mary snapped, venting her fear and irritation and -dare she admit it- _hunger_.

"Mmm," Bash started, bringing his fist up and releasing his fingers, one at a time, as he silently counted off within his head. When finished, he brought his attention back onto Mary and shrugged. "I haven't had a proper meal in three and a half days, however-" he paused to hook his thumb over his shoulder and gestured towards his horse- "I have been chewing on dried corn with this one, which I've discovered to be quite appetizing. I can gather you a handful out of the satchel, if you'd like."

Mary couldn't tell if he was jesting, or simply trying to irritate her further.

The slight glimpse of amusement within the lines of Bash's full, curved lips, however, drove the ravenous Queen of Scots well over the edge of composure.

How _dare_ he take light of the situation! She was terrified – and he wanted to tease her? At a time like this!?

"You – oh, you _pompous_ _ass_!"

There was a moment of shocked silence as Mary slammed her fingers onto her lips; horrified by her outburst. She had never spoken to anyone like this. Nor, she reasoned, had she ever been so truly _annoyed_!

Bash, however, seemed hardly affected as his hidden amusement finally burst widely across his face.

Mary was astonished to discover that, despite her irritation, the bastard's _smile_ alone had dissipated her rising anger; like a strong current to sand. How Bash managed to have this effect on the young queen, she did not know, but she attributed it to 'exhaustion' and tucked it away into the back of her mind; resolved to address the situation later. Or never.

Bash's horse flicked its tail, cracking the long, fine hair loudly within the silence.

With a dry swallow, Mary waved her hand through the air. Then, in a small voice with an apologetic inflection, she mumbled, "perhaps I'm a _little_ peckish."

Bash snorted, and there was a sparkling, mischievous glimmer within his eye. "A little?"

"I apologize. I should not have spoken to you like that," Mary began, in earnest, "I understand the importance of seeking shelter. I am only…" _frightened._

Mary's voice caught within her throat, as if something were lodged behind her tongue. It wasn't shame that held her words; rather, she was averse to admitting the truth behind her fears. She knew that it was sensible for her to be afraid of yet another abduction – or _worse_. Yet, confessing those fears would make them _real_ again. Real and acknowledged, to both her and Bash.

Appearing to sense her struggles, the king's bastard softened into a more serious countenance. "I know this village, Mary. It's full of farmers and hunters, mostly. I have traveled through it many times on my longer hunts; and I _occasionally_ reside alongside the townspeople within their homes."

Mary attempted to picture this, with difficulty, since she herself had never spent any amount of time within a village… let alone a villager's home. With a slow blink, and an emphasis on her distaste for the situation, she slowly inquired, "and you trust them?"

"With my life." He offered, in earnest. Mary must have looked askance at this, however, for Bash frowned and continued on with careful consideration. "Regardless, we will tell them that you are… someone other than your true self. I _do_ trust these people, but I'd rather not chance your safety. Word travels too quickly, even in the forest."

The immediate look on Mary's face must have painted a picture more clearly than her words, for Bash's expression suddenly morphed. There was a span of silence, and then a deep sigh.

"Do you not trust _me_ , Mary?"

Mary felt oddly contrite by Bash's sudden implication; and also, strangely surreal with the questions raw familiarity. This had not been the _first_ time that Bash had inquired of Mary's faith in him. He had asked her within the halls of French Court, before, when the young queen had expressed her discomforts when faced with Bash's strange behavior. Still, it had been an easier leap of faith, then. She was more innocent and trusting; and Bash had only been leading her into the hallway for a _game_. Now, in contrast, Mary was much wiser and far more guarded; and Bash was leading her into an unfamiliar village, not even a _day_ after he'd rescued her from the pagans!

Yet somewhere in the back of her mind sat a calm, persistent reminder. A reminder that was as plain as the sun was warm. A reminder that -no matter how stifled- bled courage back into her heart. A reminder that succeeded in appeasing her rising apprehensions and fought against the more recent horrors of her past.

It was the reminder of a promise, so pure and so comforting and so _determined,_ that it cut through all of her irrational fears like a knife to butter.

"… _I assure you, nothing is going to hurt you while I'm around…"_

Bash made a face as he considered something, deeply. Then, without a word, he knelt forward and withdrew a small, shiny, sharp object from deep within the depths of his black boot. Before Mary could object, the king's bastard reached forward, caught her by the hand, pulled her arm gently forward, and placed the handle of the small dagger firmly within the center of her palm.

Mary stared down at the dagger, momentarily astonished by how light it was in weight, then brought her gaze back up to stare confusedly onto Bash. Dimly aware of what he was silently suggesting, the young queen's brows shot upward, and she began to shake her head. "I – I have never…"

Bash moved his hand and twisted his arm so that it mirrored Mary's, while curling his fingers in-between the spaces of hers so that they both held a grip upon the dagger's handle. He then slowly raised the blade up toward his throat and pressed the sharp side gently against his skin. "You can slit, this way-" he said, bobbing the blade slightly with his Adam's apple as he spoke, while sliding the blade smoothly across the dark stubble of his throat "-or you can jam it upward-" he moved their hands, so that the blade was now suspended outward, and he pushed it slightly against the back of his jaw, causing a small indent in his skin "-or, if you can't reach that high, you can attack here-" he brought the blade down and poked it into the middle of his still-open tunic, pressing the sharp tip into the center of his chest.

Staring at the blade, still pressed into Bash's bare, undoubtedly chilled flesh, Mary furrowed her brow. "Wouldn't the victim's ribs stop the blade?"

Bash smirked, and shot her a look that Mary believed to be great impress. He nodded, grabbing her free hand, and pressed her fingers against his bare chest in a motion so fast that Mary had hardly any time to prepare herself. As she had suspected, Bash's skin was cold to the touch. However, the quick-thawing morning left the king's bastard warmer than she had originally feared; which eased her guilt, slightly.

Mary felt her face flush as Bash began to guide her fingers gently across his ribcage, slowly and carefully pushing her hands into his bare skin.

"Feel how strong the bones are here-" said Bash, running the Queen of Scot's finger across his front and forcing her to feel the distinction, "-and weaker over here. Then, feel this spot… it's alright, dig your finger in, you won't hurt me... yes _that_ , do you feel that?"

Mary nodded mutedly, as she was uncertain that she could emit any words that wouldn't squeak and embarrass her further. She pressed her fingers into Bash's stomach, unable to ignore how strong his core was, and pushed upwards until she discovered the small pocket that he described, just below his breastbone.

"You want to stab upward, into that very spot." He commanded, dropping his hands from around both of hers and stepping backwards. He moved to the distance of several strides before bending lightly at the knees and readying himself. "Now, attack me."

"No! Bash! What if I were to _hurt_ you!?" Mary gasped, grasping the blade tightly against her chest as if it were a handful of freshly picked flowers.

Bash snorted and chewed his lip. "If I cannot stop you - a woman who has _never_ held a blade before in her entire life - from killing me... well, then I rightly deserve death."

Bash chuckled once more and crooked his finger, beckoning for her to attempt an attack. For a moment, she was reminded of their time spent alongside the ocean shore, when Bash had engaged her with skipping rocks along the rolling lull of the waves. This, however, felt a tad more dangerous; for in place of flat stones, she balanced a deadly weapon between her fingertips.

It seemed odd, she thought, for a queen to be learning how to fight; after all, that was what guards and soldiers were for, was it not?

Then, unbidden, an image of Catherine de' Medici rushed inward, reminding Mary that the French Queen _certainly_ knew how to wield a small dagger... and likely had one hidden within her bodice at all times.

Gnawing on the inside of her lip, Mary squared her shoulders and lifted the blade; holding the small weapon out at arm's length while twisting the handle anxiously within her grasp. Wrist up, then down, then up again… then down. Nothing felt _quite_ right. Eventually, Mary decided upon an appropriate way to grip the dagger -wrist down- and she lunged forward, at half speed, aiming for _somewhere_ in the vicinity of Bash's left shoulder. Her feeble attack was timid and extremely clumsy, and Bash easily grabbed the young queen's arm, flipped her around, and held her captive against his chest with his palm balanced lightly atop her waist.

"Now, why would you attack someone like that?" He breathed warmly against her ear, causing the hairs on the back of Mary's neck to stand on end.

"I do not know!" Mary barked, defensively. "I've never done this before, remember?"

She was very aware of Bash's body as it pressed tightly against her; and of his hand placement atop her hip, and of his strong yet familiar scent wafting into her senses, and of his lips lingering _so_ closely to the more personal parts of her skin…

There was a strong amount of amusement dripping deep from within Bash's tone as he suddenly continued his assessments; putting an end to Mary's barreling train of disquieting thoughts. "You may as well announce to your attacker that you are planning to stab them, and then politely ask if they wouldn't be too _burdened_ by standing still while you cut them down. Try again."

Bash nudged Mary softly forward while verbally correcting her on how she held the dagger within her hand -wrist _up_ , apparently-, and on how she stood, and on how she lunged. Once she was several strides away, the Queen of Scots turned back around to fully face him, all the while attempting to swallow all of the bastard's advice down in one gulp. To her distracted dismay, however, the recent heat of Bash's body still lingered against her back; almost as if a ghostly spirit had taken his place, vexing her with shame.

Certainly, Mary _should_ have grown accustomed to the feeling of Bash's touch, by now. He had held her close on several different occasions; whether it be sharing a horse, or carrying her in his arms, or catching her from falling, or playfully sliding down the hallway with her, or - _even_ \- holding her within an intimate embrace…

And yet, she acknowledged, his touch always left her feeling so _desirous_...

Mary jarred herself back into focus by tightening her fingers around the dagger's handle; forcing herself to push her guilts of misbehavior aside.

For her second attempt, the young queen kept the blade down at her side -as to be less obvious with her attack- and shielded the weapon within the folds of her tattered dress. She sauntered more casually up towards Bash, batting her eyes innocently, then brought the blade upwards, quickly, and aimed the sharp end of the weapon into his throat. In response, Bash grabbed at her wrist and twisted her arm so that a sharp but not-too-serious pain shot throughout her hand, causing her to drop the blade down onto the moist grass at foot.

"Better." Said Bash, kneeling forward and scooping the blade up from the ground. "But, if you're going to take that approach, aim _lower_."

Mary was still tentatively rubbing at the tender spot on her wrist when Bash returned the small blade to her hand; and she shot him a look full of ire.

The young queen tightened her fingers around the dagger's hilt, indignantly, constricting the chilled, damp leather against her palm. Bash gently nudged her forward, once again. This time, however, the Queen of Scots barely took three steps away from the king's bastard before she twisted about on her heel, lunged, and plunged the blade towards the center of his chest.

Bash was _almost_ caught off guard – at least, Mary thought so. But a combination of experience and raw talent had granted him fast reaction; and he countered the young queen's attack quickly and expertly by catching Mary's hand and pulling her in toward him, crushing her arm gently between their chests in a captive embrace.

Mary's breath quickened -due to her attack, and perhaps _other_ reasons- and Bash's silver eyes pierced firmly against her, brimming with a mixture of pride and astonishment. Their faces were so close, the young queen could practically count each individual lash that perched above the bastard's eyes…

" _Very_ good, _Your Grace_. You're a quick learner."

Mary was unable to contain the slight roll of her eyes as Bash muttered 'Your Grace', and the action did not go unnoticed.

Wishing to further fluster her, Bash released the gentle grip he had held upon her arm and took a lengthy step backwards. Before Mary could question the bemused look within his eye, the king's bastard then bent forward at the waist with a low mock-bow; pausing, half way, to look up and shoot her a charming, dimpled grin.

Oh, how she _hated_ when he did that...

And yet, slowly, a small twitch began to tug at the corners of her lips; and it occurred to Mary that this smile marked the first _true_ smile that she had made in many, many days.

Bash's eyes narrowed, for a beat, and he straightened with a stretch of accomplishment; and Mary's mind filled with sweet whispers from the past.

"… _to see you smile is to feel the sun."_

As if on cue, a warm ray of sunlight suddenly shifted through the dense cover of trees and landed upon the dagger between Mary's hands. She twisted the weapon within her fingers, with preoccupied interest, and watched as the morning's light glanced off of the blade's clean, smooth surface. She hoped, _desperately_ , that she would never see the polished, clear blade sullied with use…

However, she was privately entertained by the notion of someone attempting to capture her again; only to be met by a dagger to the throat. Mary began to giggle uncontrollably as the ridiculous thought innocently progressed, and she could sense Bash's rising curiosity to her sudden shift in demeanor.

Before the king's bastard could commit his inquisition to words, Mary blurted, "shall I be deemed a novice blade-wielder, now?"

Bash barked out a laugh and quirked his brow.

"Well," he began, chuckling good-naturedly, "being as you _are_ a queen, you have the ability to dub yourself whatever you'd like."

Mary pictured the absurd image of 'dubbing' herself (patting a sword to her own shoulders, one at a time, while reciting the royal pledge that accompanied any act of designating titles) and the ridiculous concept caused a wave of laughter to burst past her lips.

"It's a bit unorthodox, don't you think?" The young queen asked through her tickled amusement, flicking her attention back onto him.

A spark of adoration glistened behind Bash's soft, silvery eyes, catching Mary unawares as their gazes swiftly locked; and she was rushed by an overwhelming emotion that brought forth a wide array of yearnings. She faintly understood what was beginning to happen to her, deep within her heart… but a more rational part of her mind cried fervently out against it.

Finding her voice, Mary clung onto a distracting thought. "What reasoning lead you to this?"

She lifted the blade for emphasis, and noticed how Bash's intense, soft gaze suddenly washed over with a grim expression. His shoulders caved forward as he ran a hand along the back of his neck, and he dropped his gaze down onto the forest ground with an audible sigh.

"Ah…" his voice trailed as he struggled to place his words. From his tone, Mary could tell that this was a matter of great importance to Bash, and her heart ached as his inward thoughts clearly ran amuck in no pleasant form. Eventually he continued, wincing as if speaking would physically pain him. "If you cannot trust in _me_ , Mary, then I want you to trust in _yourself_."

He seemed at an utter loss, his expression dismal and his face cast downward in defeat.

Oh.

 _Oh._

A feeling of disquiet enveloped the young queen. She stepped forward, wishing to ease him, and placed her hand softly against Bash's arm. The king's bastard reacted with surprise, snapping his head up; and the look of repentance, deep within his eyes, caused Mary's stomach to tremble and drop.

Then, before she could catch hold of her words, all of the queen's truths spilled from her lips as if they were water rushing free from behind a broken dam.

"I am frightened. By all of this; the woods, the pagans, the unknown. You can't even _begin_ to imagine what I have been through in the past few days, Bash. So, yes; I am wary to trust. I am wary to trust in this foreign land. I am wary to trust in my own judgement. And I am most certainly wary to trust in a village full of _strangers_." The king's bastard opened his mouth to interject, but Mary continued on, voice rising in both volume and strength as she spoke. "But, you are no stranger to me; and you have been nothing, if not loyal and honest. I... I understand that you take responsibility for what has happened, but I cannot so easily place the blame upon you. When I look at you, I do not see the man who caused my woe. Rather, I see the man who saved my life."

She paused to offer him a smile, uncertain of its effect.

"I trust you, Bash. I do."

The king's bastard lifted his hand and placed it gently atop hers, squeezing it lightly. Then, with a candor that would make the Pope himself start in its wake, he vowed, "I will never take your trust for granted."

Mary's heart skipped.

While looking at Bash's strong, young, determined face, with its broad cheekbones and solid jaw, the young queen felt -for the first time- that his rather preposterous scheme of dragging her into this random village may actually be a _reasonable_ suggestion. Then, long before her mind could make sense of its inordinate navigation, she mumbled, "come now, better not keep me famished for much longer; lest I say something _rude_."

Much to her delight, she could see that the humor instantly returned to Bash's eyes; and Mary thought she caught a glimpse of amusement showing in the lines of his full, curved lips. The king's bastard accompanied his fresh countenance with a low murmur and a wink.

"As you wish," the amusement was now apparent, "Y _our Grace_."

Mary scoffed, with humor, and pushed past Bash as he turned to gather his horse by the reins. He laughed at that, the sound of it echoing out into the forest's trees like a tolling bell.

The young queen nearly smiled, despite herself, but instead lifted her chin and composed her face into an impartial mask. She flicked her eyes up onto Bash's face once he had returned to her side, and her facade began crumbling away as a sly grin slipped free. "I pray that you deliver us to the village _before_ breakfast is served…"

It was, in fact, nearly mid-morning before they came upon the village.

They had walked in silence for most of the morning; on foot, as to give the horse a well-deserved rest. This merciful decision, however, had slowed their progress.

As the sun began to slope higher up into the brightening sky, casting warmth wherever it managed to lance through the thick evergreens, Mary realized that her dream of a hot breakfast was slipping expeditiously away. Gradually, the trees had begun to sparsen and shrink in both size and mass, and long rows of dirt mounds with freshly planted vegetables had taken their place. This was the first true sign that they were nearing their final destination; which lay somewhere beyond the final line of diminishing trees.

Once they had broken free from the shelter of the Blood Wood and viewed the anticipated village at the end of a lengthy dirt road, it occurred to Mary that this small town of farmers and hunters was _much_ larger than she had anticipated. At least two dozen buildings jutted up within the center of a wide meadow, all strategically placed to take advantage of the expansive farmland between them, and a large bustle of townsfolk busily labored within the boundaries of the small village. Even from a distance, Mary could discern their activities; the men were working the fields and tending to the livestock, the women were hanging clothing and collecting fruits and vegetables, and the children were running playfully throughout the fields …

Suddenly, the village felt close. Too close.

Bash mercifully slowed the pace of their travel, as if sensing her hesitation. Out of the corner of her eye, Mary caught the sudden tightening of his jaw and did not miss the flick of his eyes as he studied her, cautiously.

"What name shall I call you by?" He asked, coolly.

Mary made a face, then forced a perturbed smile. "Pardon?"

"I won't be calling you 'Mary' once we arrive within this village." Bash reminded, tone jaunty.

The young queen tensed, looking the king's bastard squarely in the eye.

"You haven't a name that you fancy?" Bash pressed, brightening with disbelief. "In all of your time spent day-dreaming about your future with Francis you've _never_ considered what you might name your children? A daughter?"

Mary's eyes widened with embarrassment as she firmly retorted, "that's presumptuous!"

The king's bastard seemed undisturbed by this, merely raising his brows. "Is it?"

" _Yes_." She hissed through gritted teeth, averting her gaze. After a short time, and a bit of consideration, Mary inwardly sighed and shot Bash a measured, cold smirk. "You can call me 'Elise'."

Bash glanced sidelong at Mary, then drew his gaze downward with an expression of peaked curiosity. "Very well."

Giving into a sudden, unprecedented urge to reveal her inner-most thoughts to him, Mary scrunched her nose and began to reminisce aloud. "Elise was the name of my most favorite nun at the convent. She was kind, and light of spirit, and she left quite an impression upon me. She taught me how to read, and write, and even some bits of arithmetic. And her hair... it always smelled strongly of lavender, which reminded me of my Mother. Oftentimes, when I was younger, I liked to imagine that she _was_ my Mother – which, I realize, sounds _ridiculous_."

"I don't think so." Bash assured, urging her to continue.

A part of Mary understood that Bash was trying to distract her from her thoughts about the village and whatever impending disasters may lie ahead; but she welcomed the distraction and continued, with little pause.

"One morning, after I had just learned how to climb, I went out to the orchard and spotted the tallest tree that I could find. I spent what felt like an eternity climbing to the top of that tree; and once I had navigated my way all the way out onto the end of the thickest branch... I realized that I was too frightened to turn around, and climb back down. So, after three hours, Elise came out to find me. I told her that I had climbed impossibly high, and that I couldn't manage the climb back down on my own. She studied me for a time, with a fixated look. Then she told me something that I'll never forget. 'Mary, do you think that the songbird is afraid after it takes flight?' and I said, with confidence, 'yes!'" Mary bit her lip as Bash chuckled lightly. "She laughed at me, too. But she responded, 'even so, the songbird gains confidence, strength, and courage with every beat of its wings.'"

"And so, you climbed down?" Asked Bash.

"Of course," the young queen nodded, "I wanted to be a songbird. I wanted to look fear in the eye, and conquer it…"

Mary's voice trailed as she traveled within her mind; back onto days long-past. With little effort, she was able to recall the faces of each girl that she had shared her time with at the convent, and of each nun who had helped raise her to be the young woman that she was today.

Yet, it was difficult for Mary to evoke an image of Elise that was healthy, happy, and pleasant. Instead, she was only able to picture the _last_ moment in which she had viewed her most favorite nun; when Elise had been doubled over a table, gasping and foaming at the mouth, convulsing wildly into a bowl of porridge...

The Queen of Scots took a shuttering breath, tasting bile in the back of the throat. "She died, for me. Poisoned."

Bash glanced to her, saddened and shocked and altogether dismayed by the terrible turn her story had taken. "I'm… _sorry_."

Mary cringed. Yes. That was all anyone _could_ say. And yet, they weren't _meant_ to feel sorry for those who had died protecting the crown. Instead, people were supposed to accept the fact that kings and queens were the most important people in the land; and any deaths that occurred while protecting the royal family were _necessary_.

"Many people have _suffered_ while protecting me." Mary exhaled, dismissing Bash's apology while wrapping her arms absentmindedly about herself. "Even you have suffered, Bash. You killed two men to save my life; and at what cost?"

There was a sigh, forlorn and heavy, that surfaced the moment before Bash spoke. "I have gone to war with my Father, and I have killed many men before. Do not think that I have suffered in serving you, Mary. It is my duty to protect the royal family… and to protect the Queen of Scotland."

His words echoed Mary's earlier thoughts, and she realized just how unprecedented Bash's role within French Court was. Protect the crown, while living among the royal family, falling just below the rank of royalty but well above the lesser classes; existing in a position that was wonderful, and terrible, and extremely _lonely_.

And, now, he had to worry about _her_ , on top of everything else.

Disturbed by the thought of being a burden to Bash, Mary murmured darkly, "I imagine that it is a thankless job, indeed."

Bash's feet fell into a dead stop, and he reached an impulsive hand out to pause Mary in her tracks. She turned to face him and was immediately grounded by his severe expression.

"Anyone who threatens you, or terrorizes you, or harms you, I _will_ cut down."

That was nearly more than Mary could stomach.

She _hardly_ needed a reminder of Bash's loyalty and devotion to the crown; especially when considering most recent events. Anxious to change the subject onto something safer, she seized onto the first thought that came to her mind. "Your hands - they trembled well into the night. Is that… common?"

"It's natural, I suppose," he said, noncommittally. A moment later, with a hint of regret, he added, "only a monster would not feel remorse for taking a life. I am _not_ a monster."

Certainly not, she thought. But what she said was, "the pagans are the true monsters."

Bash's jaw clinched, and he kicked his foot idly at the dirt road. Internally, he appeared to be at war with something. Something that he wished to do, or fight, or confess to…

"Mary…" he began, and his tone indicated that he was about to express something that _greatly_ tormented him. "Mary, I need to–"

"Bash!" Came the excited shout from a small boy; barreling into the side of Bash's leg in such a hearty leap of welcome that he nearly knocked the king's bastard clean over.

Bash's horse snorted and threw its large head up into the air in response; physically displaying the same amount of shock that Mary felt. The young queen shrank behind the horse, patting its sleek neck in slow, soothing motions, while peering cautiously onto the boy with heightened trepidation.

The boy -who Mary imagined _couldn't_ have been older than eight- was thin and gangly, with a thick head of dark hair that looked remarkably identical to Bash's raven locks. He had bright green eyes that beamed up onto the king's bastard's face with adoration and familiarity; and Mary's heart skipped as she began to put two and two together.

 _Is this his son!?_

Bash ran his finger's lovingly through the child's hair before he unhooked the lad from his leg and took a step backwards to view him in full. "Look how tall you've grown! What is your mother _feeding_ you?"

The boy puffed his chest out, smiling wide to reveal a missing tooth. "Father says I'm prac-tactically a man, now."

Mary's heart softened at the boy's mispronunciation; and at his mention of a 'father'. She silently chastised herself for being overly paranoid and forced herself to relax, if only just.

But still, she inwardly cautioned, who _was_ this boy?

Bash ran his knuckle beneath the boy's narrow chin and smirked. "It's about time that I bring you a _real_ sword, isn't it-"

"Sebastian, don't you _dare_!" A woman's voice, full of mirth and surprise, urged sternly from behind the youthful boy.

Mary peered beyond the child to discover whom the voice belonged to; a tall raven-haired woman, fair of skin, dressed in a thick wool gown secured beneath an apron tied soundly to her waist. The woman approached them briskly, with the most enthusiastic smile Mary had seen to date, placing a basket full of freshly gathered potatoes and garlic bulbs down onto the ground. Once she was within reach of him, she pulled the king's bastard warmly into her arms.

"Perhaps a bow and some arrows, then?" Bash teased, hugging the woman in defiance of the playful swat he received to the back of his head.

"Oh, you are a sight for sore eyes, despite your _cheeky_ tongue. Last we saw you, I didn't expect that you would return for some time!" The woman said, still smiling, returning the heartfelt embrace while swaying Bash slightly to-and-fro.

All of the sudden, the woman pulled away from Bash, turning curiously towards Mary and looking her up and down with shrewd examination. She looked _almost_ as startled at Mary's appearance as the Queen of Scots was at hers. However, the woman must have decided -rather quickly- that Mary seemed harmless enough, despite her disheveled appearance, for she smiled gallantly. "And who is _this_ beauty?"

 _And who are you!?_ Mary wanted to ask, as her paralyzing caution began to creep inward.

"This is Elise." Said the king's bastard son, with a brief tilt of his head in Mary's direction.

The Queen of Scots had half of a mind to correct him, before inwardly reminding herself that she _was_ , in fact, 'Elise'.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Elise." Said the woman, in earnest; but her eyes flashed onto Bash, with headlong speed, and there was a hint of suspicion within her widening smile and tilted brow. It was the same type of suspicious look, in fact, that Olivia D'Amencourt had displayed when accusing Mary of harboring feelings towards the king's bastard ...

Mary swallowed against the lump that she could feel forming within her throat and forced a smile. "The pleasure is mine."

Bash narrowed his eyes and took a guarded step towards Mary, gesturing between them with an open palm. "We plan to rest here, for the night. I haven't any coin on me, so I was -ah- _hoping_ we might stay with you, if that's quite alright?"

The woman made a sound at the back of her throat that aimed to signal her disbelief at Bash's pointless inquiry. "'If that's quite alright'? Have you fallen delirious? _Of course_! I wouldn't have you sleeping with the pigs, would I? Heavens, you both look absolutely chilled to the bone as it is!"

A flutter of movement down by the woman's legs caught Mary's eye; and she flickered her gaze downward to see the young boy now hanging back behind the woman's wide skirts, peering curiously up at the Queen of Scots.

"What's happened to your face, ma'am?" The boy boldly asked.

Mary lifted her hand to lightly touch what she imagined to be a purple mark at her cheek. She could feel the smile on her face beginning to fade as she attempted to rein in her scattering thoughts, and her words sounded aloof, even to her. "We - _well_ \- we were in the Blood Wood and -"

The unexpected heat of Bash's palm, pressing softly against the small of her back, caused Mary's voice to falter and drop. She swallowed, ignoring the waves of pleasurable heat that traveled from his hand and pushed through the fabrics of her dress and jacket; spreading a comforting, warm sensation into the center of her belly.

"We were attacked by bandits." Bash eventually finished, softly.

"Bandits!?" The woman croaked, startled.

"It's been handled." Bash said abruptly, waving his free hand through the air as if these 'bandits' had been nothing more than a cluster of flies upon a horse's rear.

"Bash made quick work of them, of that I am certain." A new, gruff voice called out; drawing all of their attentions.

A sturdy-looking farmer in leather trews stood in the road before them, with his thumbs hooked calmly within the edges of his belt, standing as if he dared someone to physically challenge him.

The man studied Bash with an expression upon his face that Mary could not place; though, admittedly, she was rather distracted by his personal features. The farmer's face was molded by sunken cheeks and a sharp jawline, almost completely hidden beneath a thick, dark beard and mustache; but the most startling aspect, to Mary, were his cool, silvery eyes that looked _so_ comparable to Bash's.

After an uncertain pause, the bulky farmer slowly approached them with an air of confidence.

"Jon." Said Bash, dropping his hand away from Mary's back and offering it forward. The young queen was perplexed to discover that the absence of Bash's reassuring touch left her feeling _slightly_ more vulnerable and adrift; if only just.

The farmer looked down at Bash's open palm, narrowed his eyes, then flicked his gaze back up onto the bastard's face in a snap. Mary blinked back her confusion as the man finally let out a loud, barking laugh and slapped Bash's hand away so that he could pull him in for a long, tight hug.

The Queen of Scots was near desperate for an explanation as the men exchanged several cordial pleasantries; and her mind began to wildly race as she wondered…

 _Who_ _are these common folk!?_

"Well, Sebastian, aren't you going to introduce me to this gorgeous lady?" The farmer asked, slapping his hand good-naturedly against Bash's shoulder while gesturing towards Mary.

Yes, the young queen silently agreed, it was _due_ _time_ for some answers.

"Elise," Bash began, gripping the farmer's shoulder with a smile, "this is my uncle, Jonathan Durand. He is my mother's half-brother." Bash then released his uncle's shoulder and gestured towards the woman, "and this is his wife, Sylvia." He then took a step towards the boy at his aunt's side, and pat him gently against the arm, "and this is their son, Peter."

 _Bash's family!_

Mary willed her face into a mask of calm indifference as her mind fell into tatters. Why had Bash kept this -the fact that his _family_ lived within the village- a secret from her? The young queen had never considered who Bash's family on his _mother's_ side was… and she certainly did not expect to ever _meet_ them! And what a _fool_ she must have looked; trying to sort out who these people were as they each approached her, in turn!

"Glad to meet you, Elise." Said Jon, rough voice suddenly gentle.

It took a moment for the comment to yank Mary free from her scrambling deliberations.

 _Right. I'm Elise._ This would take some adjusting.

No matter, thought Mary, she would handle this situation with grace; as she always did, and as she was disciplined to do.

"So wonderful to _finally_ meet Bash's family." The Queen of Scots acknowledged, returning the smile while pointedly flashing Bash a piqued glare, to which the king's bastard responded with a wince.

"The pleasant side of his family, at least…" Jon mumbled; and a wide, impudent grin brightened his face briefly.

"O-oh," Mary stuttered, blinking back her surprise at Jonathan Durand's crass bluntness.

Bash interjected, rather brashly, as if his gruff-looking uncle had somehow struck a chord within him, and he steered the conversation into an entirely different direction. "Where is Isobel?"

Mary pressed her lips together at the mention of a new, unfamiliar name. Of course, there would be yet _another_ family member to meet.

"She rests, of course, but oh - she will be so pleased to see you, Sebastian. And to meet _you_! Come, come!" Sylvia insisted, hooking her arm swiftly around Mary's elbow while ushering the young queen forward, leading them deeper into the heart of the village. "And you needn't worry, sweet girl, I will fetch you a fresh change of clothing."

"That would be lovely," said Mary, allowing Sylvia to guide her.

Crowds of villagers approached Bash as they scuffed throughout the town, stopping him to offer the king's bastard a hug, or a thump on the back of his shoulder, or a quick exchange of kindly words. One young woman had been bold enough to stop Bash, her cheeks ablaze with a mixture of nerves and adoration, and plant a gentle kiss upon the side of his face; though, she had been _most_ dismayed to discover his female traveling companion.

Each encounter -no matter how strange or _intimate_ \- had drawn the Queen of Scots closer and closer to one apparent conclusion; Bash knew _every_ person that lived within this village, and they of him. In fact, the king's bastard was practically a _part_ of this village; as if he'd been born, raised, and developed by this unusual collection of farmers and hunters.

As they walked, Mary would catch sight of Bash's quick, apologetic glances; but there was no opportunity for words, or explanations, or justifications during their navigation throughout the town. Instead, the king's bastard would flash the young Queen of Scots a rueful smile, full of warmth and veracity, which _almost_ atoned for his misrepresentation of this town and every person who lived within it.

Almost.

* * *

 **A/N:**

The next chapter will be entirely in Bash's POV. I intended to lump both of their POV's together as one chapter (like I usually do) but, uh, that would have morphed this chapter into a 40+ page beast, and "ain't nobody got time for that". ;)

Love.


	7. As Clever as You are Beautiful

**A/N:** Uh. Let's ignore the huge elephant in the room (the elephant being my year and a half long ABSENCE).

Your undying support for this story, coupled with the encouragement for me to continue, have revived this zombie fanfic. So, thank you.

This chapter has a few pagan exchanges, and the translations can be found at the bottom. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: As Clever as You are Beautiful**

 _Behold all the pieces of fortress that once stood  
The canvases colors can't hold like they once could  
Listen to the growing sound of all I've known that bids me farewell  
I saw the new horizon deep within your eyes as the autumn leaves fell_

 _And I'm in love  
You broke me like the dawn breaks through the night  
The day that didn't know that it needed light  
Yeah, I'm in love_

 _-Dawn,  
Jake Scott_

* * *

 **B** ash indolently drug his feet as he sauntered down the familiar, cobbled walkway towards his newly-manifested nightmare.

Preceding this moment, he had been encircled by a crowd of villagers who all welcomed the king's bastard and his 'traveling companion' with equal parts warm enthusiasm and a sea of relentless questions. Naturally, Bash had anticipated this kind of reaction from the town's folk upon entering the village. What he had _not_ anticipated, however, was the overwhelming feeling of guilt that weighed heavily upon his conscious as he received each friendly, innocent greeting; for every amiable reception had been accompanied by a fiery glance from Mary, as it became ostensibly more _and more_ apparent to her that Bash had, once again, lied.

Lying, as a general rule, was not a method of which Bash often relied upon. In his experience, deception tended to be a messy and ambiguous beast, maintaining the most adverse inclination to turn and trample over its founder at any given moment. And yet, here he was. Floating adrift in-between a muddled torrent of truths and lies while wandering towards his partial-time childhood home.

He was flanked on either side by individuals whom existed within the two _very separate_ lives that he led; on one side, Mary, Queen of Scotland, and on the other side, his _secret_ family. One of Bash's two lives -the life in which Mary belonged to- was a charmed and privileged life. The other life -the one in which his secret bloodline resided- was… well, _complicated_ , at best. Not surprisingly, these individuals and their respective lives did _not_ fit well together, and Bash had spent fifteen years making damned certain that his two worlds _never_ intersected.

Bash swayed slightly with exhaustion and apprehension as he, his family, and the Queen of Scotland all approached the front of a modest, stark cottage. It was nothing to gawk at; no fanciful décor, no high-rising pillars, and certainly no grandiose displays. The cottage was little more than a poor farmer's home, adorned and constructed with thick stone walls, slitted windows, and three spouting chimneys that jutted through a wooden, shingled roof.

The sight of the home prompted a multitude of memories, for Bash; including those that belonged to much simpler times. Memories of when his mother and uncle were still on the verge of mending a broken family relationship. Memories of his very young childhood, when he and Isobel would wander out past the livestock and crops to roll and tumble down the sides of bounding, grass-topped hills. Memories of nightfall, when the children would rush back to their homes from a long day of play, covered in dirt and grass, plainly exhausted from hours of sun-kissed frolicking. Memories of evening, crowded tightly around a campfire, enthralled by the nonsensical ramblings of the elders in the village...

"… _lumenick dushkader et sparago faraha ay raynim doluchtai…"_

Bash swallowed thickly, willing the demons of his past back down into the deepest, darkest reaches of his soul. He wondered if he would ever be rid of them -these terrible, shameful truths of his past- and reasoned that no one ever _truly_ escaped from the grips of their lineage; whether it was royalty, or peasantry, or something far, _far_ worse…

Before his thoughts could lead him down a tortured path, Bash's attention was drawn to Sylvia as she shooed a mud-caked pig and a bundle of chickens free from the intricately placed pebble walkway; and the king's bastard did not miss the deep flush of embarrassment that flashed across his aunt's face, nor the sidelong glance that she cast towards Mary. Well accustomed to this type of treatment, the snorting and clucking livestock disappeared into the thick, overgrown crops that lined the stone pathway, and Peter darted after the assortment of animals while giggling in childlike innocence.

Barely troubled by her child's frivolous actions, Sylvia stepped forward to push against the door at the entrance of her home. She released a disapproving 'tsk' as the hardware groaned loudly -as if in protest- against the palms of her soot-covered hands. Cheeks ablaze, she commented offhandedly, "your uncle has been meaning to _fix_ that…"

Bash's heart cinched. His poor, kindly aunt's embarrassment stemmed from the innocent idea that Elise was a rich, highborn lady of French Court who was presumably entering into the unprepared farm house, unaccustomed to a commoner's simple -and, oftentimes, messy- way of life. More to the point, perhaps, Bash feared for the likelihood of Sylvia uncovering her unanticipated guest's _true_ identity...

"Is that so?" Jon voiced, faintly amused. He tapped his fingers against the door's rusted hardware, acting as if this would miraculously correct the issue, then shrugged his shoulders up into his ears.

Mary, who formerly stood at his aunt's side, shifted tentatively into the side of Bash's arm as both Sylvia and Jon disappeared into the warmth of the cottage. The sudden, rough contact caused Bash to glance guardedly down and onto the young queen's face; and they each studied the other's expression, searching for an answer. For his part, the king's bastard hoped his aspect displayed the deep regret he felt for not being more forthcoming about his family. As for Mary's features… well, Bash could only liken it to the countenance of a woman who felt _greatly_ betrayed.

Again.

"Please forgive the disarray!" Sylvia's voice rang out cheerily, if not slightly flustered.

 _Best get it over with…_ thought Bash, reaching his hand forward to grasp at the splintered, aged doorframe. Seeking strength in the wood's questionable stability, he tilted his head to the side in courteous form and gestured for the young queen to enter first. Beyond a moment of hesitation –wherein Mary clenched her jaw and squared her shoulders– the Queen of Scots shifted across the threshold of the home, fueled by a plethora of thoughts in no charming form. Bash's eyes trailed after her rather diffidently, knowing that it was entirely possible that she may _never_ forgive him for this deception, then leisurely followed suit.

Jon and Sylvia's modest home had always felt smaller than it appeared from the outside, to Bash. The livestock and high rising crops gave the building an illusion of size; but it was, in fact, little more than a two-bedroom cottage. Nonetheless, the crackling hearth and the smell of freshly cooked meal counterbalanced what the house lacked in richness.

As Bash crossed the threshold into the small living quarters, he took a deep breath full of the comforting, spicy scent of herbs, onions, and the burning timber that wafted up from the fireplace

 _Welcome home._

Sylvia shifted into the small kitchen to place her basket full of gathered vegetables down alongside several piles of freshly cut meats, cheeses, and breads. As she created space for the newly arrived food, a large, juicy tomato rolled freely across the table, tumbling over the edge before she had time to save it. Fortunately, Jon swiftly caught the fleeing vegetable, exuding little to no effort in his quick reaction. He placed the tomato gently back atop the mountain from which it came, casting a wide glance at his wife, followed by a wink.

The king's bastard quirked a brow at the enormous gathering of food. It was an oddly generous amount, considering the family was made up of merely four people…

A soft creak in the floorboards drew Bash's attention away from the odd scene within the kitchen. He impulsively bit down upon the inside of his lip as he spied the Scottish Queen, now ambling slowly about the main room with a look of keen fascination painted across her face.

The king's bastard could admit, despite his unease, that it was an enchantingly exquisite scene; Mary Stuart, the beautiful Queen of Scotland, standing within the center of his family's humble little home, captivated by the common and simpler things which made the cottage feel like - well, like a _home_.

The small, intimate quarters housed several windows along the far wall, where panes of sunlight knifed through the air and cast warmth upon a wood planked floor and an assortment of woven rugs. Mary's feet stirred swirls of shimmering dust up into the narrow rays of sunlight as she spun in a quick, tight circle; her gaze bouncing up and down as she took in the scene of what _surely_ must have appeared to her as a rather 'quaint' collection of items.

A warm smile stretched across the queen's full lips as she traveled, glancing at details that enriched the home; such as the herbs that hung upside-down along the walls, the candles upon the banister that rose at varying heights, and the collection of colorful wild berries that overflowed from a wooden bowl atop the kitchen table. Her pale fingertips brushed along the carved arm of a cedar chair, and the corner of her lips tugged upward as she examined a hand-picked floral arrangement at the center of the room.

When she had completed her half-turns, Mary twisted about to face Sylvia.

For reasons unknown to him, Bash sucked in a cautious breath of air.

"You have a well-loved home, indeed; and it is perfect. You will apologize for nothing." Insisted Mary, her eyes soft and earnest.

Sylvia lifted her chin, noticeably swelling with pride and a pinch of relief. "I thank you for that, dear."

A shock of affection burst through Bash's chest as he watched their polite exchange, and he released his bated breath.

Internally, the king's bastard kicked himself. What had he expected? He had never known Mary to be cruel or wicked; and the thought of her treating his family with any dash of callous was absurd.

The sudden slamming of a wooden door, originating from the cottage's tiny hallway, rustled everyone's attentions. Then, before Bash had any time to digest what had happened, he was hastily enveloped by the familiar combination of sinewy arms, wild brown hair, and squeals of breathy excitement.

"Cousin Bash! What a wonderful surprise!"

In natural reaction, Bash embraced his assailant warmly and chuckled; blowing a few stray tendrils of long, unkempt hair free from his mouth as he lifted her up into the air.

"Isobel! Easy now!" Sylvia scolded from somewhere behind them, rapping her knuckles upon the kitchen table with frustration.

Bash ducked his head, momentarily transported into a previous time when he was merely a child being scolded by his aunt for his impetuous actions. He slowly lowered the girl back down, waiting until her tiptoes perched safely atop the ground, then allowed her to squeeze him once more before breaking their tight embrace. Beaming, the king's bastard took a large step backwards so that he could view his cousin in full.

Isobel was undoubtedly still the same fiery girl with ice-blue eyes, a quick tongue, and a spirit that could bring men to their knees – but, there was a rather _alarming_ change to her appearance, and the sight of her bulging stomach beneath a heavy brown cloak and skirts gave Bash pause. Feeling abashed, he slapped his hand over the front of his mouth as an acidic sensation of guilt charged instantaneously forward.

 _Has it been so long?_ He mused, staring at his life-long friend with uncontrollable awe.

Last he saw her; Isobel had been merely a few months pregnant. How had so much time passed? How could he have allowed this to slip his mind? How had he been so... so... _so distracted_? Reining in his scattered thoughts, Bash lowered the hand that he'd clasped against his mouth and reached forward, gently placing his palm against his cousin's swelling belly.

"How are you?" He asked at a whisper, speaking as if he were afraid that his voice might startle the unborn child.

"Oh," began Isobel, with a long-drawn sigh and the scrunch of her nose, "tired, uncomfortable, anxious, swollen... the usual, of course."

Bash managed to choke out a chuckle, though it held more concern than humor. "Soon?"

"A month, or so." Isobel shrugged, then shifted her icy gaze over and past Bash's shoulder. "Hello, ma'am."

Bash side-stepped and outstretched his arm towards Mary, gesturing her forward while grasping desperately for his waning composure. "This is -uhm- this is Elise. Elise, this is my-"

"Your beautiful cousin, I gather." Mary smiled, reaching her hand forward.

Isobel clasped Mary's hand but noticeably shrank, as if she were embarrassed by the young queen's compliment. Her light eyes glanced beseechingly onto Bash as she mumbled, "I see you have finally found yourself a _decent_ lady."

Bash hesitated a moment before attempting to answer her; stifled on a mixture of amusement, humiliation, and shame. "I-ah…"

"You said that your baby is due in a month?" Mary interjected, changing the subject.

Isobel brushed the back of her hand against the edge of her untamed hair and nodded. "That is what the village midwife has told me."

Mary looked as if she had more to say on the matter, but she remained composed.

"Come with me, Elise." Sylvia called from the edge of the living quarters, elbow-deep in a cupboard. "Quickly, you must change out of those sodden linens! I have stored Isobel's older gowns in here... ah-yes! This should do."

Syvlia withdrew a long, dark dress and tossed it over her shoulder. She eyed Mary briefly, considering, then decided upon something further and plunged back into the cupboard to retrieve additional items.

As both Mary and Bash had arrived within the families' home more-or-less in tattered rags, it was no surprise that Sylvia insisted that they change as quickly as possible. That aside, the offer still appeared to concern the Queen of Scots, and she nodded thoughtfully in Isobel's direction. "Oh – are you certain?"

Isobel stretched her arms wide, then patted her rounded stomach with a touch of pride. "Yes, I assuredly will not be squeezing into _that_ dress any time soon."

Without further discussion, Sylvia crossed the floor in rapid strides and plopped the linens into Mary's arms so suddenly that the young queen nearly dropped them down onto the floor at her feet. Bash's aunt then whisked the Queen of Scots quickly down the hallway, ushered her into the same room that Isobel had emerged, and sealed the door behind them with haste.

The king's bastard suppressed his knee-jerk reaction to follow after them, knowing that this was the first true moment in which he had allowed Mary out of his sights since her rescue.

Making an effort to ground himself, Bash slid stiffly down onto the comfort of an old, splintered armchair. He attempted to picture the scene as it developed behind the closed door; all the while _praying_ that the two women did not delve into the plethora of truths that he had been so desperately evading.

As such, Bash's head began to run wild with irrational suppositions, and his chest grew tight with anxieties.

Surely, he reasoned, Mary must have possessed the good sense _not_ to reveal her true identity to Sylvia – especially in light of most recent events. In contrast, Bash was not so confident that Sylvia -who characteristically was much more direct than Mary- had the sound judgement to withhold family secrets from the young Queen of Scots. There was certainly a fine line drawn in the figurative sand when concerning their heritage, one that Sylvia wouldn't _dare_ to cross; but what if she let on just _enough_?

There had been moments -far too many to count- wherein Bash had almost confessed _everything_ to the young queen, himself. Everything about his family, and who they were, and who he was, and _what_ they all were. Each time would prompt an internal battle; one side of his soul fighting to keep his secrets concealed, and the other side fighting to profess all of his truths...

But these were _not_ his secrets, alone.

And though Bash would willingly risk his own life a thousand times over for Mary; he could not ask the same of his family.

The king's bastard sat heavily, forcing his eyes to travel away from the door that separated him from the Queen of Sots. His gaze shifted tranquilly onto his uncle; and the image produced a consequential chill, coiling at the base of his spine.

Jon, who was now leaning against the far wall of the kitchen, bit savagely into a thin slab of ham that hung loosely off of the end of his silver dirk. His eyes, which had always been a dead give-away of he and Bash's relation, were hard-set upon his nephew.

"I've missed you, Sebastian!" Isobel started, drawing attention; and her attempt at breaking the thick bask of silence was kind, if not obvious. The freckles that lined the bridge of her nose were scrunched with a look of distaste, and she cocked a brow while gesturing her hand up and down, as if to place her cousin on further display. "You look awful."

He could always rely on Isobel to be blunt, for she was much like her father in that regard.

"Yes, well," said Bash, casting an appraising eye at his cousin's expansive frontage. "We've _both_ seen better days, wouldn't you agree?"

Isobel snorted and made a face that Bash was quite familiar with. "I'll admit that it is nice to see you in your true, slack-witted form; unlike the gussied-up fop you usually parade around as."

Now it was Bash's turn to laugh; and he did so, allowing the feeling of humor to momentarily wash away his stresses.

"In truth," the king's bastard began, once he had recovered from the verbal blow that his cousin had cast, "it has been a long, tiring night. Firstly, we were caught within the storm, which delayed our progress. Then we came upon a gathering of bandits. As you can imagine -" Bash paused to glance sidelong at his uncle "- there was a brief skirmish."

"Is that what happened to her face?" Inquired Isobel, no doubt referring to the light bruise that still remained upon Mary's slender cheek. Bash nodded, once, then tensed as the sensation of his sword slicing through the heretic's stomach came flooding into memory. Attuned to the nature of his body language, Isobel raised her chin and softly added, "then I know, without doubt, that you gave those bandits a sound flogging in return."

Bash looked about, thin-lipped, as his gaze bounced between his uncle and cousin. "I gave them more than a flogging."

Jon nodded absorbedly, paying close attention to their exchange. He savagely bit the remaining chunk of meat off of the tip of his weapon, then asserted out of the side of his mouth, "it's unlike you to be so unprepared, Sebastian. What purpose were the two of you traveling for?"

"Elise has just returned from - _ah_ \- Spain." Said Bash, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I met her at the border, and from there... you know better than most, Uncle, how quickly a travel through the Blood Wood can turn."

Jon nodded, face alight with interest. "She's from Spain?"

Bash hesitated a moment. _Stick to the truth, as well as you can_. "No… she lives at French Court. She was only visiting her distant family in Spain – a second-cousin. Elise is actually… Scottish. She is the daughter of a wealthy Scottish farmer."

"She doesn't sound Scottish…" Jon commented skeptically, lifting his dark brows.

"She grew up here. In the country. She was sent over at a young age; raised as a convent child." Said Bash, with a faint smile.

"Not so different than Mary, Queen of Scotland!" Isobel remarked, blue eyes glowing with delight.

"Yes." Bash started to laugh but converted it into a tactful coughing fit. He couldn't help it; the accurate deduction from his sweet cousin was both alarming and hilarious. "Quite the same."

Despite their distaste for the French Royalty, and practically _all_ things French Court related, Bash's family on his mother's side had always held quite an interest in the Scottish Queen. Then again, who didn't? Her unmatched beauty was rumored throughout the countryside, and her fabled life was that of a story among the common folk; a displaced Queen of Scots, hunted by her cousin's country and targeted by hundreds of enemies, hidden away in the vast, rural spans of France, promised to one day marry the Dauphin and both conquer and rule over half of the free world. It was an exciting tale, and a romantic anecdote, told to children and cherished in the hearts of most commoners.

And if Bash hadn't been a living, breathing part of her story, he might have enjoyed the tale of Queen Mary, himself…

"Now the poor girl is surrounded by the abhorrent rabble of French nobility." Jon voiced, pushing away from the wall and rounding the kitchen table. "And how is his most royal highness, these days?"

Bash picked up on the cynicism of Jon's tone, and his ears grew hot. He straightened within his seat, knowing that his uncle was prodding at an un-stoked fire, waiting to see where it may flicker and burn. Wetting his lips, the king's bastard said, with a bristling voice, "my father, _The King_ , is well. The Queen is also well. The Dauphin is well. The nobles are well. The stable hands and the kitchen staff at French Court are all well." Bash narrowed his eyes, viewing his uncle sardonically. "That should cover all individuals and parties that you are concerned about, does it not? Or, have I failed to mention someone?"

Jon blinked, taken aback by Bash's tone. The sharp-cut features of his face firmed once again, and he inhaled his rebuttal…

But it was Isobel who broke the silence.

"How is aunt Diane?" She inquired, placing her hands atop both of her hips and drawing herself to her full height, paving the way for a verbal altercation. Slower than her father to lose her temper, Isobel still had one, no doubt of that, and she reveled in the chance to challenge Jon whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Bash was unable to contain the slip of a sly smile as it stretched across his lips. He shot Jon a quick look, cognizant that this was the exact direction in which his uncle did not want the conversation to turn, then muttered, "my mother is _very_ well. French Court treats her kindly, and she lives like a queen."

" _Et autem reges meretrix_." Jon murmured under his breath, in a language quite foreign to most ears.

Bash's skin crawled as the word's tumbled free from his uncle's mouth, and he glanced towards the still closed door that separated Mary from their exchange. Never mind the fact that their house guest was the _actual_ Queen of Scotland; this language was not the kind of dialect that could be heard by anyone outside of the village and surrounding wood, lest the speaker risk being marked as a heretic and burned alive at the stake.

Quick as lightning, Isobel whirled towards her father.

"Father!" She snapped in exasperation, hands in fists at her sides.

"It's quite alright, Isobel," Bash insisted, remaining impassive, hoping to calm the rising tension before it potentially doomed them all, "I am accustomed to being ridiculed at Court. Why not endure it here, as well? After all, what am I, if not a living, breathing reminder of all of my mother's mistakes?"

Bash stared at his uncle levelly, allowing his question to fill the air; the truth of it burning like a fresh wound in his gut.

Isobel made a sound that suggested empathy for her cousin, but Bash did not wish for nor need it. In truth, the king's bastard knew good and well that, for some people, he was nothing more than a hardship that must be endured. Whether it be Queen Catherine's pain and bitterness for his father's infidelity, or Jon's indignation for his mother's betrayal, there would always remain one common factor; Bash.

"You are family!" Isobel retorted, rolling her eyes onto her father and pointing an erect finger directly between his piercing blue eyes. "It is not Sebastian's fault that his mother was seeded by a king! Your anger towards your sister cannot keep spilling onto him, or anyone else of kin! You must let it go, Father! You have t-to… let it…"

The fire in her eyes subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and Isobel expelled a breath of air through gritted teeth as she grabbed for her stomach with discomfort. Both Jon and Bash reached for her in unison, seeking to offer comfort or support, but she angrily swatted them away. The spell overtook the young girl's fragile body for what felt like an eternity, and neither man moved a muscle as her pains came and went. Bash was certain that he had forgotten to breathe as he watched his cousin lean back, pressing her hands into the base of her spine and groaning with torment. Once it was over, and the stir of chaos had dissipated in full, Isobel straightened and glanced between both men with knitted brows.

"God knows it; you're both thick-headed asses!" Isobel spat, swiping at the strands of hair that now mussed about her face. She absentmindedly stalked towards the fire, legs noticeably wobblier than before, and braced herself against the stone fireplace, allowing the glow of the dancing flames to color her despondent expression. "I don't delight in the prospect of bringing this child into such a tormented household; lest the babe grow up to be much like one of _you_!"

Taken off guard by her hasty recovery, Bash laughed, a little shakily.

Jon cocked an eye at Bash, considering, but decided against any snide comment. At length, he sighed and lifted a brow, looking sourly amused. "You are right, Daughter. Sebastian; I am sorry."

Agreeing to meet his uncle halfway, the king's bastard murmured, "I know."

One final, quick glance shared quietly between the two men concluded their pointless dispute.

The conversation continued, running on casual lines and avoiding any further distresses. They discussed the weather, the crops, the farm; all things that could be discussed by enemies and friends alike, but coated with unspoken words clearly heard beneath the mask. Jon confessed the need for an extra hand around the cottage, and he shared that he had begun to teach Peter how to run the home when he was absent for hunting trips. Isobel disclosed the daily proposal of marriage that she had received -offered to her by one of the elder men in the village- of which she admitted to politely declining on a regular basis, causing Bash to roll with a fit of laughter. Eventually, when it was the king's bastard's turn to share, he avoided the subject of his _other_ family altogether, focusing instead on the mundane aspects of his life, all the while insisting that nothing of interest had occurred since his last visit.

"You always act as if life at French Court is so... _dull_." Isobel said, now seated across from Bash, staring musingly into the fire while absentmindedly cupping her stomach. "It's a wonder why you ever return to it."

"You would prefer that I remain here?" Inquired Bash, feigning amusement.

Jon made a noise in the back of his throat, indicating hilarity at this ludicrous idea.

"And why ever not!?" Demanded Isobel.

"I can give you several reasons," Jon interjected, rubbing a rough hand down his dark, peppered beard and twisting the long strands at the end, "one of which is in your bedroom, no doubt."

As if on cue, the door to the aforementioned bedroom swung open with a rush, and Sylvia slipped languidly out into the hallway. She was carrying a pile of folded garments over her right arm, and Bash recognized the largest of these bundles to be Mary's filthy, ruined dress. The king's bastard rose sharply to his feet, ignoring the immediate pang of fatigue that shifted down his legs, and glanced behind his aunt with expectant eyes.

"She is dressing." Said Sylvia, tone indifferent, as she closed the door tightly behind her. "In the meantime, you can borrow some of your uncle's clothes and use the wash basin in our bedroom."

Bash clenched his jaw as the memories of the past night rose with a ferocity that he had not anticipated. He disliked the idea of Mary being alone, much like he disliked the growing opportunity for his _other_ family members to speak with the Scottish Queen before he had the chance to explain himself, and, more importantly, before he had the chance to inform her of her newly fabricated life.

"Perhaps I should go check on-"

"Oh, Sebastian! She's quite alright, I assure! You can bare a few more moments without her – now go!" Sylvia admonished, smiling out of the corner of her mouth.

 _She will be fine_ , Bash internally chided, avoiding the urge to push past his aunt and barge straight into the bedroom from whence she came. Instead, he inhaled deeply, drawing his gaze away from the door, and acknowledged numbly, "right, I suppose a change of clothes would be … welcomed." And yes, certainly, a change of clothing would nice; and Bash could hardly imagine what he looked like –let alone _smelled_ like– having worn the same riding outfit for a number of days that he altogether couldn't count on one hand.

"The clothes will be too big 'round the waist for him," Jon smirked, stepping forward and poking Bash in the stomach before continuing, "come along, then. I'll show you to them."

The king's bastard took a few tentative strides after his uncle, then stopped short as a thundering force of realization curbed his forward motion.

It occurred to Bash that now, in this moment, was the best time for him to inform his family of a _partial_ truth; all in the hopes of avoiding any future spills of a dangerous secret. _"_ She…" he began in a low timbre, craning his neck towards the closed door for emphasis, "… e _t non scitis ex nobis._ "

Having been somewhat prepared for this moment, Bash was unsurprised by the brief, stupefied glances shared between his aunt, uncle, and cousin. Jon took a sudden, deep intake of breath as his light eyes swept restlessly onto his wife and daughter, casting them a look that bordered on cautionary. The countenance of his face shaded over as a flurry of thoughts swept across his mind, and his long, graying beard shifted forward as he pressed his lips into a hard line.

At length, Bash's uncle murmured lowly, "and we intend to keep it that way."

Then, grasping Bash by the shoulders, Jon steered his nephew into his and Slyvia's bedroom, and closed the door swiftly behind them.

Long after his uncle had left, and the clothing in question had been laid upon the bed, the king's bastard caught his reflection within the old mirror above the wash basin. Despite a long crack that split down the center of the glass, and a cluster of cloudy spots that had formed upon the object's surface over time, the young, tired face of the man who stared back at him was alarmingly clear to see.

Bash's hands automatically reached up to feel the sides of his face, raking through the stubble that had doubled in length since his initial departure from French Court. He then inched his fingertips upwards, walking them across his cheeks, and gently pressed at the deep, dark circles that arched beneath his eyes, plainly displaying the chaos that he had been through, of late. He then journeyed his hands even further upwards, picking at a few leaves and twigs that entangled themselves into the roots of his raven hair, and he sprinkled the particles down onto the ground alongside his muddy boots. Finally, he acknowledged the overall status of his clothing, which appeared –well– bedraggled, at best.

With practiced fingers, Bash unhooked his sheath and sword from across his chest, then unfastened the strings of his tunic –once white as snow, now yellowish-brown in color– and placed each item aside with care. He bent to pull off his riding boots, then picked them up at the shaft, one at a time, and set them neatly aside. He slipped out of the breeches he'd worn for days on end and groaned in relief as he freed himself from all of his filthy cloth under-dressings. Then, once he was stark-naked, he began the meticulous task of scrubbing the sweat and grime from his body using the soft rag that Sylvia (God bless her) had left out. As he worked, Bash found himself longing for the comfort and cleanliness of a _true_ bath; one where he could soak for hours within a large, deep tub, submerged in soaps and suds.

 _Like a true gussied-up fop_ , he mused, chuckling lightly at the recollection of his cousin's earlier insult.

Once he was finished, and the previously clean rag held all of the grime that had once sullied his skin, Bash surveyed the clothing upon the bed with a critical eye. The proffered apparel was not the kind of attire that the king's bastard was accustomed to wearing, nor was it made of the same fine cloths and leathers that he usually donned, but it would suffice, for now.

After shrugging his uncle's large brown cloak up and around his shoulders, and kicking his legs deep into the black, sturdy wool trousers, Bash surveyed himself one final time within the mirror above the wash basin.

Better, he considered, albeit he looked a touch like Nostradamus in an oversized cover...

Not wanting to waste any further time, the king's bastard slipped his boots back onto his feet and grabbed for his sword, leaving the room quickly. He tactfully avoided the curious eyes of his family members as he crossed the creaking, wooden floor, and had no sooner pressed himself flush against the entrance to the second bedroom when he became inevitably aware of the dispute that awaited him within. Acting instinctively, Bash grasped tightly at the hilt of his sword, as if this conflict could be defeated with brute strength alone; and then, before he had the opportunity to reconsider his actions, the king's bastard gently rapped his knuckles against the door.

"Come in."

Bash leaned his shoulder heavily against the wood and slipped noiselessly into the room, dismissing the touch of trepidation that trailed in his wake.

The bedroom was just as he'd remembered it; small, cluttered, filled with the aroma of burning wood, and warm beyond reason – mainly due to Isobel's aversion to the cold. Two small beds and a stony hearth inhabited a majority of the space, and a collection of small trinkets, clothes, and books lay strewn across the planked floor. To Isobel's credit, the room had once maintained a bit more order and tidiness… that is, before young Peter was born.

The king's bastard found the Queen of Scots among the chaos, seated at the edge of one of the lumpy beds, staring into the embers at the pit of the fireplace. She fit perfectly into Isobel's dark brown dress and buckskin coat, and -despite always seeing her in more 'royal' garb- Bash considered these garments flattering to the young queen's raven hair and the smooth cream of her skin. She looked more like herself, now; though the ghosts of her recent trauma still remained, hanging closely about her, haunting and clear to see.

Mary's delicate hands worked busily at combing her hair through, pausing mid-sweep as she glanced up. Her face was tranquil and blank as a wall, save for the slight arch of her brow as she narrowly regarded him. Then, without so much as an utterance, she drew her gaze back down onto the ash and cinders, and the sound of the comb navigating through the tangles of her hair filled the span of silence once more.

Bash swallowed, thickly. He could see the chasm that lay between them, created by a slew of secrets and deception, gaping and impassible. A tension coursed throughout his entire body, and he felt as if the wood beneath his feet had reached up and trapped him where he stood. Glancing up at the low-beamed ceiling, briefly seeking solace in whatever God may have granted him comfort, the king's bastard began, voice soft, "did you manage to elude Sylvia's prying?"

Mary's countenance promptly shifted into an expression bordering on hostility, though she refrained from looking up.

"I am no stranger to a false identity," she said by way of greeting, comb suspended loosely between her fingers. "Though it is an interesting question, coming from someone who is _perpetually_ dishonest."

Bash's jaw tensed and his eyes widened, for a beat. Despite the many diverse scenarios that the king's bastard had previously conjured up within his mind in preparation for this _exact_ interaction... no amount of planning could have prepared him for _that_. "My… intention _was_ to tell you, Mary."

Evidently, that was all it took.

With breakneck speed, Mary threw Bash a harsh, fiery look with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Oh? When did you intend to tell me? Certainly not before we entered the village, nor before the entire town -including your _family_ \- flooded into the streets to welcome you back!" The Queen of Scots challenged, voice carrying passionately around the small room despite her low murmur. "And what of your promise to me!? You _swore_ to never take my trust for granted again!"

"I had several reasons for… withholding this information." He insisted; voice slightly repressed. "The main reason, however, is the _same_ reason as always; to guard your safety."

Mary slapped the hand that grasped the comb down onto the bed with vigor. She was irritated, and didn't trouble to hide it. " _Most_ gallant of you, as always."

Bash's lips curved into a deep frown as his heart stuttered and fell. "It's… complicated. You wouldn't – you _can't_ understand!"

"Very well, then! Continue with your lies; this day shall be _abundant_ with them." Said Mary; though something in the shadows that darkened her gaze warned the king's bastard that he would _not_ escape with such vague, simple answers.

There was a long silence, then. Bash could hear the very steady, nervous pounding of his heart within his chest. He could hear the soft song and dance shared between the wind and the high-rising crops in the meadows beyond the window. Farther still, he could hear the call of a small songbird... and he wished, more than anything in this tense, unmoving moment, that he was that bird. Or, at any rate, far, _far_ away.

Bash winced and glanced down at his hand, still clutching the hilt of his sword. The golden lion he had chosen as his bastard-born symbol peeked through the tight, pale twist of his fingers; signifying that he could be brave in the face of all nightmares, this one being no exception.

"My mother first brought me here, to meet my family, when I was a very young child. She felt as if it were important that I 'understood my roots', despite the vast rift between her and my uncle. For…" he began, and swallowed again, finding his memories and secrets much more difficult to tell than he had anticipated. "For many years, whenever my mother would go to Paris, I would come to the village under the guise of accompanying her. I was taught of the commoner life and informed of my family heritage. I… I loved having a second life, then. I thought it might grant me a chance to be whoever I wanted."

Bash hesitated. The image of his younger self -naïve, hopeful, optimistic- flashed across his mind. He had enjoyed life in French Court, as a young boy – really, he had. But when the opportunity had been presented for Bash to be someone _other_ than the king's bastard son; well, it had all seemed too good to be true, at that time. Of course, he had eventually learned that neither life was _truly_ fulfilling; for whenever he found himself growing comfortable in one life, there was the distant, beckoning lure of the other…

"I can still recall the look within Jon's eyes when he first saw me. It wasn't a consideration of loathing, like Catherine's impression of me. No, no – it was… _pity_. He looked at me as if he could see the _torn_ life that I would lead; not truly belonging here or there. He, too, is a bastard child, you see; and I believe that his empathy is what incited him to take me in, in spite of the risk..." Bash trailed off, wishing his story could end just so.

"What risk?" The young queen prodded, voice pitched low.

"Years ago, when my father was still a Dauphin, he was investigating the area for a supposed pagan rebellion. When he came upon this village, he met a young woman -my mother- and was instantly infatuated. Seizing the opportunity of a better life, my mother allowed him to - _ah_ \- 'court' her. Of course, Jon was never fond of the monarchy; he believed that the power should belong to the people, rather than to the crown. So, when he realized that his half-sister had left to be the official mistress of the future king... well. It was enough to persuade my uncle..." Bash swallowed once more, hard. An icy ball formed in the center of his stomach as he considered his next words; knowing, with some regret, that there were certain parts of the truth that could no longer be skirted.

"Shortly after my mother had settled into the castle, Jon was…" Bash drew a steady breath and squared his shoulders, drawing on whatever strength he had left, "he was involved in an uprising-"

"An uprising!?" Mary echoed, not caring to conceal her appalled reaction.

Bash nodded; jaw clinched. "A foolish, insignificant uprising; but, yes. He was captured, among many other rioters, and was sentenced to hang. My mother interfered, of course, and she arranged for his release. As they say; she has always possessed an uncanny ability to… _persuade_ my father into seeing things her way."

Mary's mouth opened soundlessly, then clamped shut into a tight line. She didn't speak for a time, but her eyes pierced straight through the king's bastard, replete with a thousand inquiries. Her fingers twisted nervously within her lap, pinching and tugging, until eventually she found the courage to inquire upon the detail which seemed to disquiet her the most.

"Everyone believes that your mother is from Paris, and that the king met her within the city. Does – does _anyone_ in French Court know of the truth?" Despite Mary's best efforts to mask it, Bash could gather -merely by the inflection of her voice- where the true question lay, veiled deep within her heart. _Does Francis know?_

 _Of course Francis knows._ Bash mused, tackling down the jealous rise of his heart.

Francis was Bash's best friend; and, though his mother had _greatly_ warned against it, Bash had decided to tell his brother of his _secret_ family many, many years ago. He had told him of Jon, and of his family, and of their _beliefs,_ and he had trusted that Francis would be discrete with such delicate and damning information.

"To this day, the only people at French Court who are aware of our kinship with Jonathan Durand are my parents, Francis, myself, and now… you." Bash inhaled a shaky breath, digging through the years of surmounting fears as they materialized before him; and his placid appearance likely failed to obscure the tumult of his mind. "You can imagine what Catherine would do with such information."

Mary's lips parted slightly, and she flattened her hands against the dark fabric in her lap. She whispered, with more than a slight edge to her voice, "yes, I can imagine."

There was _more_ to the story, of course. More darkness, more frightening details, and more incriminating information. But Bash had a suspicion that if he told her the rest of it now, here in the humble room of his childhood, he would regret it for the rest of his life; and also, he suspected, would she.

But what other choice did he have?

Continue to _lie_ to her?

Jon's earlier assertion, whispered in secret, encircled Bash's mind, _"…and we intend to keep it that way…"_

Bash sighed, and it was a disheartened, absent sort of sound. In a last-grasp effort to ensure her understanding, without revealing any further secrets, he continued faintly, "I have sworn to protect you; and, in doing so, have forsaken the lives of those I love. Had I any other choice, I would not have brought you here. But the horse hasn't rested in days – _we_ haven't rested in days. You are hungry, and exhausted-" he paused as Mary drew the fabrics of her dress tightly around her, as if his acute observations unnerved her, "- and I won't risk your health _or_ safety in any further travel, this day."

A muscle contracted near the corner of Mary's mouth, and a stubborn gleam surfaced at the center of her eyes. "I am the Queen of Scotland. You have no right to decide what is _or is not_ advantageous for me. And you _certainly_ have no right to keep secrets of this gravity."

Well accustomed to the young queen's headstrong tendencies, Bash countered, "and you would have come with me willingly, knowing that my uncle is a marked traitor?"

"I might have!" She spat in defense, cheeks flushing with ire.

Bash bowed his head stiffly forward, raking a hand across his face. Often times, he found the Queen of Scotland's unyielding stubbornness to be enchanting and amusing; but _this_ was not one of those times. "Mary, you know yourself better than that. _I_ know you better than that!"

"So, never mind my royalty," said Mary, hurt flickering briefly across her features, "my trust -my _word_ \- bares no significance to you, either!"

Bash deadpanned. "Is that really what you think?"

"It doesn't matter." She said in a finalizing tone, twisting away from him in a dismissive manor. "You have underestimated the value of my faith in you, and you won't have it again."

Mary was as still as a mountain, then; defiant against all elements. Her face was blank as an empty canvas as she stared down at the ground between her feet, dark hair falling like a curtain across her milky cheek.

The king's bastard could _hardly_ stand her expressionless mien, nor the thought of what must lie concealed behind it. He wished desperately for some way to break the silence that parted them; longing for an act or a declaration that could restore the lost trust between them.

Without giving himself a moment to think on it, Bash moved briskly across the creaking floor and knelt down onto the ground at the young queen's feet. His wrists hung loosely across his raised knee, hovering just close enough to Mary's legs that he could feel the warmth of her skin. He could feel a great deal of _other_ things radiating off of her, as well; such as the enmity that clouded her heart, and the fear that she held tight under rein, and the courage that made her continue on, in spite of it all. The king's bastard then gathered his own courage -a flimsy comparison to what Mary contained within her- and reached forward to grasp the Queen of Scots gently by the arms. Torn between the impulse to pull her in, and the urge to run away, he did neither; instead he remained, his thumbs circling in small, comforting motions where he held her, brushing against the soft fabric of her sleeves.

In an act that nearly seized his breath, Mary haltingly raised her right hand up and over her lap and laid it gently across Bash's forearm, squeezing lightly.

As they held onto each other, unmoving and unspeaking, the distance between their impassioned hearts began to lessen and give way. Like a soothing balm, their former quarrel was warded off by the sudden intimacy; and, gradually, the anger within Mary's eyes wavered, just as the tightness within Bash's chest crumbled away.

"I was afraid." He admitted; his hoarse, shaky voice alarming to them both. "That doesn't absolve me of anything, but… you were right. I was wrong to keep this from you. And … I'm sorry."

 _I'm sorry._ It was a sentiment he'd spoken too often, of late.

Mary's eyes flickered upward to study his face, long lashes blinking softly. After what felt an eternity, she wet her lips and audibly reasoned, "I can't imagine how you must feel; leading two very separate lives."

Unbidden, an ironic smile spread across Bash's lips as he exhaled a sigh of ease. "It is not ideal."

The Queen of Scots shook her head back and forth. Her hair brushed softly across Bash's wrists, the length of it reaching down to where he still lightly held her, sending a pleasant chill down his spine. "I shouldn't have spoken to you the way that I did. _Again_. Giving you edicts, questioning your actions..."

Bash averted his gaze, focusing on the point where Mary's hand rest evenly across his arm. "So, you're not… angry with me, for acting impulsively?"

He could sense her eyes, boring still into him, and he could feel her body relax as she considered her answer. "You did what you had to. I see that now."

She straightened then, removing her hand from his line of sight and demanding -without words- that he look at her. Obediently, Bash lifted his gaze, re-captured within her familiar, warm, and gentle stare.

For a heartbeat, the king's bastard studied the perfect, fine points of Mary's face; and it was within that moment that he realized, with mild impress, that the Queen of Scotland had _changed_. She was no longer the girl who had skipped rocks with him at the water's edge, no longer the girl who had slid alongside him down the hallways of French Court, no longer the girl he had spun around and held close at the costume banquet. She was stronger, now. And with that strength came courage.

"Is that everything, then? No more lies?"

Her inquiry jarred him, and Bash swiftly withdrew his hands from her sides. Mary's words slid across his skin like a scaly, toxic snake, threatening him with the tip of its flicking, pronged tongue.

 _Is that everything, then?_

Feeling hard-pressed beneath the Queen of Scot's adamant stare, Bash's soul fell briefly into tatters; and 'torn' did not even begin to describe the sudden division of his heart. His thoughts were reeling as he fought for a foothold within his mind, searching for some frame of action that could provide him with an answer to give.

 _No more lies?_

Pressing his eyes briefly closed, Bash centered himself, forcing his mind into a state of calm.

 _God._

One day, he silently vowed, he would tell her. _Everything_. But this was not the place, nor the time.

Mouth dry and pulse pounding, Bash resolved in a whisper, "no more lies."

There was a loud sound as Peter entered into the house, followed by an instantaneous heckling from Isobel, then a calculated scolding from Sylvia, ending lastly with an amused comment from Jon. From what little he could make out, Bash deduced that the boy had hurled himself into the home, covered in grime and pig-filth, and whirled about the kitchen, resulting in _quite_ the uproarious scene on the other side of the door.

Momentarily distracted by the mayhem, Mary inquired lowly, "are they not concerned of me knowing the truth?"

Bash peered briefly over his shoulder, staring expectantly at the door as Peter began to giggle and squeal. When the playful clamor had quieted down, he inclined his head and audibly reasoned, "they know that I would not risk their lives by bringing someone into their home who I did not trust."

"And who am I, exactly?" The young queen inquired bluntly, catching Bash slightly off-guard. Sensing his apparent confusion, she expanded, "who is… 'Elise'?"

Bash gnawed on the inside of his cheek, recollecting upon the story he had fabricated earlier, when explaining that complicated answer to Jon and Isobel. "You're the daughter of a wealthy Scottish man, but you grew up in French country. You were sent to Court once you became of age, to acquire a suitable husband…" he trailed, then, trying to recall if it was a cousin or… was it a second-cousin? Or, no, _yes_ … "your second-cousin is Spanish, and you've just returned from visiting him in Spain. I met you at the border as, _of course,_ I am simply your escort, assuring your safe return…"

Bash trailed into silence as the Queen of Scots straightened, her body as tense as a bowstring. A slew of emotions danced and warred upon her face, until finally one of them emerged victorious; and that look was _quite_ embarrassed.

Curious beyond belief at her sudden change in demeanor, Bash furrowed his brow and leaned slightly forward. "Say what you're thinking."

Mary eyed him fixedly and inhaled. "While tending to me, your aunt kept remarking on what 'a lucky young lady' I am."

Her implication was not lost on him, and Bash felt the corner of his lip twitch upward with amusement. "I _will_ make our relationship clear; you needn't worry."

"No." She said quickly. Too quickly. Then, seeing Bash's uplifted brows of amusement, stammered, "it _helps_ the story! What other reason could you possibly have for traveling with me?"

Bash's smile widened; albeit, it was more on behalf of Mary's clear disquiet, rather than any foolish notion that she may have been eager to portray his beloved. "The truth, perhaps? As I said; I am simply your escort, returning you safely back to French Court."

"Why? Why not anyone else? You are not an escort by occupation – you're… you're the king's _son_." Mary argued, lifting her shoulders.

"And his fastest rider." Bash added with mirth. "Which, if you consider it, would establish me as an _excellent_ escort."

Mary's full lips twisted into a smirk as she avoided his gaze altogether. "No, it leaves too many holes, too many questions. It would be easier if we stuck to a story that they already believe to be true. Do you not agree?"

Bash mulled it over carefully. He had to admit that there was a certain amount of possibility there. His family _did_ appear to believe that he and 'Elise' were romantically involved, and the villagers would easily trust 'Elise' if she were presupposed to be faithfully following Bash; more-so than some high-born lady being escorted through the Blood Wood. It was a fine plan to avoid any further difficulties on that account, he supposed. Though, it was a plan likely peppered with its own considerable obstacles…

Bash tilted his head appraisingly, casting a narrow glance at the young queen. Still kneeling in front of her, the king's bastard pressed his hands into his leg and bowed slightly backwards; cautious in the event that Mary may decide to throw her arms wildly about after he _dared_ to speak his next words.

"If you insist, _Your Grace_."

"I don't insist!" Mary snapped, flashing her attention onto his face with a hint of asperity. Despite her initial reaction, however, Bash could see the slightest trace of amusement, waltzing within the corner of her deep, polished eyes.

The king's bastard expelled an amused rush of air through his nose as he caught his lower lip between his teeth. "So, you are my betrothed, then?"

"I do not have a ring." The Queen of Scots respired in a small voice, casting a low, temperate stare at the ground.

No, he supposed, she did _not_ have a ring. Not from him, nor from Francis.

Bash winced then, knowing -without _truly_ knowing- that the absence of a ring was much more disappointing to Mary than simply just for the sake of their story...

An idea suddenly dawned, like the light of daybreak, and Bash shifted his legs to allow him easy access to the hidden pocket of his left boot. Reaching down into the deep, tight compartment that usually housed his silver dagger -which, he assumed, the young queen still possessed _somewhere_ on her bodice- Bash swirled his finger around the narrowed compartment until he felt the smooth surface of the item he sought. Prodding the loop gently, the king's bastard withdrew the Scottish crested ring to the sound of Mary's gasp.

"You-you _found_ it…" The Queen of Scots whispered through an astonished gape.

"If I hadn't, I would not have found you." Said Bash, recalling the moment in which he'd found the emerald jewel, hidden among mud, twigs, and leaves. The ring had represented everything that the king's bastard had needed within that terrifying moment in the Blood Wood; the hope that Mary was still alive, fighting for her life. And God only knows what would have happened if he _hadn't_ discovered the ring...

A wild thought suddenly occurred, as Bash reminisced in private, and he looked to Mary with shock. "And you dropped this with purpose?"

Evidently pleased with his appreciation of her gumption, Mary nodded.

"You are as clever as you are beautiful, Mary." Bash smiled, twisting the ring back and forth between his fingers.

There was a time, not long ago, when the king's bastard had considered the idea of 'settling down' to be a laughable suggestion. He had, of course, been 'of age' for several years, but Bash was fortunate enough to evade the pressure of marriage from both his father and suitable courters, alike. And whether King Henry's disinterest in the matter was fueled by apathy, or the lack of a profitable opportunity, Bash had never questioned the gift of his carefree lifestyle; for it seemed _much_ preferable, when compared to Francis' long-arranged marriage.

That is, until he actually _met_ Francis' fiancée of ten years...

Possessed by an impulsive desire that he _truly_ couldn't identify, Bash suddenly gestured for Mary's left hand.

Dumfounded and curious, the Queen of Scots placed her fingers tentatively against his open palm, and Bash closed his hand gently around them.

Heartbeat awakened to the cadence of a drum, Bash lifted his head slightly and offered Mary a dimpled smile. Holding the silver ring steadily between his fingers, he straightened his shoulders, wet his lips, and readied himself to ask the question he'd _never_ imagined himself saying…

"Marry me, Elise?"

The Queen of Scotland bit back a charming laugh, the tops of her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. Bash accepted her amusement as a form of agreement to his proposal, and he slid the ring gingerly onto her appropriate finger. The light, seemingly innocent touch sent jolts of heat throughout his entire body, and a ripple of longing hummed down along his spine, twisting down until it plunged deep into the center of his core.

For a brief moment, Bash envisioned a life where the woman seated before him was, in fact, Elise, and _not_ Mary, Queen of Scots. A life where he wouldn't hold back his feelings. A life where he wouldn't allow titles to come between them. A life where the heat that now coursed from his hands into hers would not lead to _nothing_ , but rather a passionate, real kiss that would leave them both lightheaded and weak. A life where he could admit the yearnings that he had long eluded. A life where he could declare himself hers, and only hers.

" _Sit DOWN_!" Sylvia's voice, passionate and angry, cried from the other side of the door.

Shaken by the outburst and nearly _desperate_ for an excuse to draw breath, Bash rose quickly to his feet while gently guiding Mary with him. Feeling a little lightheaded, he allowed the young queen's hand to slip free from his grip, watching as she busily flattened it against the folds of her wide skirt.

Rubbing a hand across the stubble of his jaw, Bash made his way for the exit. He hesitated briefly, fist resting against the center of the door, and he glanced back with a look that inquired _, are you ready?_

Without an utterance, Mary nodded.

If the cottage was often a peaceful place, it was also one of intermittent turmoil; and, true to form, Bash and Mary entered into the hallway to discover that his aunt and eldest cousin were caught up in a verbal skirmish, of sorts.

"You _need_ help! This is too great a task for one person!" Isobel remarked, seated –presumably by force, judging by the look upon her face– at the kitchen table.

Young Peter was settled in across from his sister; drops of water streaking down the sides of his face where a rag had been recently dabbed to remove the offending grime. Jon was no-where to be seen, though the king's bastard reasoned that his uncle could be found in the fields, avoiding the never-ending bickering between his wife and daughter. Sylvia was bustling to and fro, preparing and overseeing several pots and dishes; her pale cheek dusted with a stripe of flour, and the back of her neck gleaming with the slightest drops of perspiration.

Pausing in her progress, Bash's aunt peered over her shoulder to snap at her eldest child. "Not from you! _You_ need to stay off of your feet!"

"Oh – who else, then?" Isobel challenged, slapping her hand on the table. The wooden bowl at the center of the table vibrated slightly with the sudden percuss.

"What can I assist with?" Bash inquired cheerily, interjecting before Sylvia had the chance to lash back.

Sylvia and Isobel's attentions turned, and their expressions brightened upon seeing the king's bastard alongside their unexpected house guest.

"Nothing, nothing." Insisted Sylvia, and she grabbed for two sections of bread as she scampered across the floor to meet them. "Here, eat. You both look famished."

Both Mary and Bash accepted the proffered portions, exchanging quick glances before biting hungrily into their pieces. The satisfying feeling of food in his belly was quick and welcomed, and -though he had been unaware of his feeble strength beforehand- the king's bastard instantly felt steadier on his feet.

Once he had completed his simple meal, Bash took a wide step into the center of the kitchen, glancing about at the display of multiple foods. He then inquired, in a tone of mild impress, "what is all of this in preparation for, Aunt?"

Sylvia, who was now sprinkling a handful of herbs across a large chunk of meat, shook her head with a light flush. "The whole village is gathering tonight for an early harvest celebration. I will be supplying a bit of food."

"A _bit_ of food!?" Isobel mocked, clearly unable to contain herself.

"Shush!" Sylvia fluttered a hand at her daughter, expression severe.

"I will gladly help, if you wouldn't mind." Offered Mary, in earnest.

Bash smiled. Sometimes, he realized, he would forget how truly _good_ Mary was; as a person, as a Queen, and as a friend.

"Oh, Elise – I dislike the idea of asking my house guest to assist in such tiresome work… and you look exhausted!" Sylvia insisted, dismissing the notion of help with a wave that ended in a reach for some garlic bulbs.

"Nonsense," said Mary, rolling the dress sleeve into perfect sections up her left arm, "I will help you, and I won't take 'no' for an answer. After all, I was a rather unannounced house guest. And as for my exhaustion… well, I can sleep when I'm dead. I am happy to help, I assure you."

Sylvia hesitated for a moment, considering. She then nodded, once, and a smile creased one corner of her mouth as she pushed the basket of potatoes closer towards Mary. "Alright, sweet girl. Peel and cut. Let me just find you a suitable knife…"

With no hesitation, Mary reached her fingers down into the center of her dress and plucked the dagger that Bash had given to her free from the depths of her corset, and laid it down alongside the vegetables with a small smile. She then remarked, rather airily, "I have one."

Bash's jaw fell open.

"Oh, I quite like her." Isobel declared with a grin, leaning back in her chair.

Once he had recovered, it occurred to Bash that his family had been waiting for a moment like this; for a sign that 'Elise' was a humble, un-pretentious lady of French Court. And, he reasoned, Mary likely recognized this, as well. She was, after all, skilled in diplomacy and authority, having been schooled her entire life for such things. And what was this, if not a simpler form of negotiations and finesse?

Quiet as a mouse up until this moment, no-doubt waiting for the perfect opportunity to spring, Peter hopped down from the chair, causing the furniture's legs to squeak across the wooden floor. With hands clasped tightly together in an imploring motion, the small boy scampered over to Bash's side and begged, "Bash, come play with me!"

Sylvia whirled about, sending a few sprigs of thyme down onto the floor. "Peter, your cousin is tired!"

Well-prepared for the initial denial, Peter shrugged his shoulders up into his neck and widened his bright green eyes. With a passionate tone, he proclaimed, "but – _but_ – nobody is as good at sparring as cousin Bash!"

Bash chuckled. Seven years ago, when the king's bastard was merely twelve years old, Sylvia had plopped a small, squealing bundle into his arms. _Take heed_ , she'd warned, _he's wiry and unbridled!_ No doubt, Peter had never stopped being either of these things, since then; and the family had never succeeded in curbing the boy's tenacity for turmoil.

"How can I say 'no' to that?" Inquired Bash, touched by Peter's pronouncement. The king's bastard then reached forward and pulled the boy into him, tousling his hair and capturing him within a tight, playful grip. Peter wiggled and laughed, exerting great amounts of energy in his efforts to break free.

"Oh, that's easy," Isobel rebutted, eyes narrow, "you simply round your lips like this-" she paused to round her mouth with wild exaggeration and leaned slightly forward "-and you proceed to say, 'nnnnnooooo'."

Peter stuck his tongue out. Isobel made a signal with her hand, placing her thumb to her nose and wagging her fingers. Sylvia sighed, defeated, and cast disapproving glances at both of her children. And Mary, bearing witness to it all, pressed her fingers to her lips to forbid a laugh from bursting through. Oh, what a _spectacle_ they all must have displayed, through the eyes of the Queen of Scotland.

"Grab your swords, Peter." Bash commanded, at length; barely getting the sentence past his lips before Peter had squirmed out of his cousin's grasp and dashed off in the direction of his bedroom with an eager squeal.

The king's bastard stepped hastily towards Mary, catching the young queen just below her elbow and pulling her gently towards him. He whispered into the side of her neck, certain that the timbre of his voice was low enough that only she could hear him, "don't cut yourself on the dagger, _Your Grace_."

Mary nudged Bash good-naturedly with her shoulder and crinkled her nose. In response, he offered her what she'd often referred to as a 'cheeky' smile.

Young Peter sprinted back across the floor, catching the end of Bash's oversized robe sleeve within his small, _surprisingly_ strong grip, all the while clenching two well-loved wooden swords between his lanky arm and ribcage. He hauled the king's bastard towards the front door with palpable excitement, swinging the exit open to the sound of a high-pitched creaking.

Before he was drug completely out of the cottage, Bash managed to cast one final glance back at Mary, just as she had begun to cut through a rather healthy, rounded potato. The ring, now secured upon her finger, shone against the lines of sunlight that poured in through the window, glistening as if it were proud to be displayed. Sylvia, at this time noticing the scintillating jewel, murmured something to 'Elise' with a wide smile and a wink, and the Queen of Scotland giggled lightly and nodded in cordial response.

And the sight warmed Bash's heart in a way that little else ever had.

* * *

 **A/N:**

I can't speak to whether engagement rings were truly a 'thing' of the 16th century, but I know that wedding rings were. So, for the sake of 'awe' purposes… we will just roll with it, eh?

The pagan exchanges translate (roughly) into:

 _lumenick dushkader et sparago faraha ay raynim doluchtai_ = deep the roots, dark the night, red the blood, I will pay

 _Et autem reges meretrix =_ and the King's Whore

 _Et non scitis ex nobis =_ does not know of us

Let me know what you guys think! The feedback is what has kept me (extremely slowly) going, so bring it on!

Love.


End file.
